I knew someone was following me.

At first, I convinced myself it was paranoia. A car appearing behind me twice could be coincidence. Footsteps matching mine could belong to anyone. But after three weeks, I stopped lying to myself.

Someone was hunting me.

I just didn't know why.

Tonight, I finally made the mistake of letting myself be cornered.

The abandoned parking garage is silent as I step inside, my footsteps echoing against the concrete. Every instinct tells me to turn around.

Then I see him.

A man stands beneath a flickering light, dressed entirely in black. Dark hair falls across his forehead, and his gray eyes immediately lock onto mine.

I've never seen him before, but somehow, I know exactly who he is. The person who's been following me. His hand disappears beneath his coat. I freeze. Then he pulls out a photograph.

Mine.

My stomach twists. "You're the one who's been following me," I whisper. My blood runs cold. Someone hired him to kill me. I should run. Instead, I stand there, staring at the man who was supposed to be my death.

I look him up and down. For an assassin, he's not as intimidating as I'd initially believed. He's shorter than me by a lot, easily a foot, and I likely have a hundred pounds on him at least.

"You don't look dangerous," I add.

And for the first time, I realize something—he hasn't killed me yet. I'm not sure why.