Tyrant Stalker (Tyrant Dynasty 2)

I pull myself up, push my feet into my slippers and head for the window. I always leave it open, but the room's chilly now, and I need some warmth. I close the window and when I turn around, I stop in my tracks as I take in the sight before me.

My purse, the one that the thief stole from me last night, is resting on the armchair.

This can't be right. I rush toward the chair, grabbing the bag as if to make sure I'm not still dreaming. But it really is there. And when I open it, I find everything in there that I took with me last night. My lipstick. My keys. My phone. My wallet. Nothing is missing.

I don't understand how this is possible. My first instinct is to call Raphael. Make sure I didn't imagine that guy taking off with my purse last night just as my date and I were sharing a moment on that sandy beach. But I don't. I don't want to be the crazy girl that doesn't even remember everything that happened.

Did I drink that much last night? I wonder. I had two glasses of wine with dinner, and it's true I'm not used to alcohol... But I'd remember something like the robbery correctly. Wouldn't I?

Worrying my bottom lip between my teeth, I scroll through my messages. There are a few from Robin, asking how my date went last night, and nothing from Raphael. I send back a quick reply, not mentioning that I got mugged on the beach. I'm still not sure whether the whole thing is just a figment of my imagination.

I'm working at the plant nursery later, but before then, I owe someone a visit.

I change into one of my regular, baggy outfits and head outside. It's not a very warm day, and I wrap my free arm around my body, so I don't get cold. In the other, I'm clutching some snacks I had at home, making a mental note to pick up something more nutritious for Sam next time. He refuses to go to the soup kitchen where I volunteer, claiming other people need it more than he does. I admire him for his selflessness.

My opinion quickly changes as I make my way into the dark alleyway that's been Sam's home for the past two years. My friend is slumped on the ground, and next to him, there's a needle.

He promised me he wouldn't do this again. He promised he'd do his best to get clean this time. That he really wouldn't spend any more on drugs. Where the hell did he even get the money? I never give it to him anymore because we both know it ends up with his dealer.

"Sam," I say, shaking him on his makeshift bed of newspapers and cardboard boxes. "Sam, wake up."

His eyes fly open, and a huge weight falls off my chest. I've found him like this too many times to count, and the fear that one of these days, it'll be too late, is twisting my stomach into knots.

"Sam, what did you do?" I ask as he picks himself up, clearing his throat and dusting off his dirty jacket.

"I guess you saw it," he mutters croakily. "And we can't just pretend you didn't?"

"No, Sam." I groan, running my hand through my hair before handing him the paper bag. "Here. It isn't much, but I'll bring you something else for tonight."

"Thanks." He looks embarrassed as he takes the bag from me. An awkward silence follows. I know this is hard for him. He told me he never had friends – not even before he started living on the street. He also told me I'm the closest thing he has to a daughter. But none of that matters, apparently, because he still hasn't kicked his nasty drug habit despite me begging him to stop countless times.

And the worst part is, I know this is what drove Sam to part from his family.

He told me about his wife and daughter before. He got divorced early, but he still got to spend time with his daughter until his addiction took over his life. When it did, his kid cut off all contact. He has two grandchildren he's never met. I know how much it hurts him. I can see it in his eyes.

But today, I don't feel sorry for him. I feel too angry and betrayed for that.

I pick myself up and give him one last look. "I'll see you later."

His eyes meet mine, and the pain in them is almost unbearable. Before he can say another word, I walk away.

I spend the rest of the day working at the nursery, but my mind is swimming with too many thoughts to count. I try not to focus on Raphael. On my purse reappearing in my bedroom. On Sam.