I stirred awake to the soft sound of a zipper and the faint rustle of fabric. Blinking sleepily, I found myself still curled up on the lounge chair on the terrace, the blanket wrapped snugly around me. Something felt… missing. My gaze darted around, and then I saw him—Dylan—shirtless, moving around the room as he packed our suitcases with that calm precision he had for everything.
I rubbed my eyes and stepped inside, still bundled in the blanket. "You promised you wouldn't leave me alone," I said, my voice carrying a hint of a pout.
He looked up instantly, and a slow smile curved his lips. "Good morning, Ceren." His tone was warm, teasing but tender. "Someone woke up all pouty and adorable, huh? I didn't leave you—I just moved over here to pack. We've got a flight to catch, but not for a few hours. You can still steal all the cuddles you want."
I blushed, shuffling toward him. "You could've at least waited until I woke up. I hate waking up without you next to me."
He smirked, reaching out to pull me into his arms, blanket and all. "Well, now I know I'm your personal comfort pillow," he teased, kissing the top of my head. "How are you feeling, love? Better?"
I looked up at him, heart skipping. "Much better now."
"Good," he murmured, cupping my cheek and brushing a strand of hair away from my face. "You deserve soft mornings like this." He kissed me lightly before stepping back. "Now, sit on the bed. I'll finish packing, but don't think for a second I'm not spoiling you. Room service is on the way. Pancakes, fresh fruit, and coffee."
I laughed softly and sat down, wrapping the blanket around myself like a cocoon. "You know me too well."
He grinned while folding his shirts and tucking them neatly into the suitcase. "Of course I do. I could list exactly how you take your coffee with my eyes closed. And I know you'll steal the strawberries off my plate because apparently, mine taste better."
I tried not to smile but failed miserably. "Maybe because you don't appreciate strawberries as much as I do."
"Or maybe," he said, shooting me a look, "I just like watching you take them. You make everything look better."
I ducked my head, my cheeks heating up, and he chuckled under his breath, clearly pleased with himself.
A knock at the door broke the moment, and Dylan grabbed the tray from the staff. "Breakfast in bed, as promised," he said, placing it on the table before sitting beside me. He handed me a plate first, his fingers brushing mine with an easy, familiar warmth.
"Dylan Fynder, I swear, you're trying too hard to look like boyfriend material," I teased, spearing a piece of pancake.
His eyes softened, the playfulness fading into something real. "Who says I'm trying?" he said, his voice low and sincere. "With you, Ceren, it's effortless."
My heart stuttered, and for a long moment, I just looked at him. He reached for my hand, lacing our fingers together, his thumb drawing slow circles against my skin. "Stay here with me for a while," he murmured. "No plans, no missions, no chaos—just this."
I leaned against his shoulder, smiling softly. "I could get used to this."
"Good," he whispered, pressing a kiss to my temple. "Because I plan on giving you a lot more mornings like this.
Dylan returned to the suitcase, folding his dark suit jacket with that neat, precise care of his, while I sat cross-legged on the bed, nibbling on a strawberry from the tray. My eyes followed him like a cat watching a shiny object.
"You're really bad at sitting still, aren't you?" he said without looking up, his lips twitching into a half-smile as if he could feel my gaze burning holes into his back.
"Maybe I'm just admiring the view," I said innocently, though my tone gave me away.
He shot me a playful look over his shoulder. "Are you now? Want me to give you a proper spin?"
I giggled, leaning back on my hands. "Don't tempt me, Mr. Fynder."
"Too late," he said, smirking, and then went back to rolling a shirt with military precision.
Something mischievous sparked in me. I slipped off the bed, padded over to the suitcase, and before he could react, I snatched one of his crisp white shirts and held it up. "This one's mine now."
He raised an eyebrow. "Really? Are you planning to steal my wardrobe now?"
I pulled the shirt over my head—drowning in it, the hem almost reaching my thighs. "Maybe. It's comfy. And it smells like you."
Dylan froze for half a second, his jaw tightening as his eyes swept over me. "You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"
I tilted my head, pretending to think. "Not yet. But I could try on your jacket too."
"Ruth," he warned lightly, but I could see the amusement fighting its way onto his face. I picked up his dark jacket from the chair and slipped into it, twirling dramatically like it was a designer coat.
He crossed his arms, watching me with a slow grin. "You look like trouble."
"Good," I said, striking a mock-model pose. "Because trouble looks good on me."
He chuckled and shook his head, closing the suitcase lid. "You know, I'm trying to be responsible here—packing, getting us ready—and you're… well, distracting me."
"That's my job," I said sweetly, leaning against him with the jacket still on. "You take everything so seriously. Let me have my fun."
"Fun, huh?" he murmured, his hand finding its way to my waist, pulling me closer. "You look like you were made for stealing my things."
"Clothes," I corrected. "Just your clothes. For now."
He smirked, leaning closer until his breath brushed my ear. "Dangerous words, Ceren."
I felt my heart race but quickly covered it with sass. "You're not scaring me, Dylan."
"Good," he said, stealing the strawberry from my hand and popping it into his mouth. "Because I'd rather keep you smiling like this."
We ended up sitting on the bed, him half-packing, me pretending to help while really just stealing bites of his breakfast and trying on his watch, his sunglasses, and even his tie, which I looped loosely around my neck.
"You're worse than a hurricane," he teased, watching me with obvious affection. "But God help me, I like it."
"Good," I said with a grin, leaning into him.
After some time, all our bags were packed and neatly stacked by the door. Dylan had insisted on carrying most of them down, despite my protests, and by the time we checked out of the hotel, the sun had dipped lower, casting a soft amber glow across the street.
As I settled into the car beside him, my phone buzzed with a notification. I glanced down, expecting something mundane, but my stomach tightened the moment I read the message.
Marcus.
"It wasn't planned for you to be with him during that; there is an important dealing that you need to work on tonight."
That was it. No context. No details. No reassurance.
I stared at the screen, my mind spinning. What important dealing? Nothing about this sounded casual. My chest tightened with suspicion and unease, like a storm was quietly gathering beneath my skin.
I turned to Dylan, my eyes narrowing slightly. "This is… strange. What am I supposed to be dealing with tonight? It's kind of suspicious, isn't it?" I handed him the phone so he could read it for himself, my pulse hammering in my ears.
He read the text in silence, his expression cool but sharp, like he was mentally dissecting every word. Then, without saying anything, he reached out and wrapped an arm around me, pulling me against him as the car began to roll forward.
"Hey," he murmured softly, his breath brushing my temple. "It's okay. I'm here. Nothing's going to harm you." His tone was low but steady, a quiet kind of reassurance that felt like armor. "Maybe it's just Marcus following up—something routine about what happened here. Don't overthink it, hmm?"
I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding, leaning into his warmth. "You make it sound so simple."
He held me close, his arm draped around my shoulders like a shield, and I felt the tension in my body slowly ease. The quiet reassurance in his touch worked better than any words could have. My cheek rested lightly against his chest, the rhythmic thud of his heartbeat grounding me in a way nothing else could.
The flight back home was long—hours that stretched endlessly across the sky—but it was surprisingly comfortable. The cabin was dimly lit, with only the occasional chatter of other passengers and the soft hum of the engines filling the silence. Dylan had claimed the window seat, and I sat nestled beside him, our hands loosely tangled on the armrest between us.
We spent most of the flight talking, our voices low, as if the world outside the plane didn't matter. Sometimes, we napped—my head falling to his shoulder, his arm instinctively wrapping around me, even in his sleep. Each time I stirred, I'd find him already watching me with that quiet, unreadable look, as though he was making sure I didn't drift too far into my thoughts.
But my mind wouldn't stay still. No matter how much Dylan tried to distract me—telling me random stories from his missions, pointing out the colors of the sunset outside our window, even playfully complaining about the bland airplane food—I kept drifting back to Marcus's cryptic message and what it meant for tonight.
I turned my head slightly and caught Dylan staring at me. His gaze wasn't sharp or guarded like usual—it was soft, steady, as if he was reading every thought I was trying to hide. I raised an eyebrow and let out a small chuckle."What?" I asked, my voice lighter than I felt.
He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curling just enough to hint at a smile. "Nothing. Just noticing how miserably my attempts to pull you out of your head are failing."
I laughed, the sound coming out a little uneven but genuine. "No, no, it's working. I'm just… a tough nut to crack, remember?"
He leaned back slightly, one arm resting over the back of my seat, his eyes glinting with that teasing warmth that always seemed to slip past my defenses. "Oh, trust me, I know that better than anyone."
Before I could reply, he reached for the glass on the small tray table and poured some chilled white champagne, the bubbles fizzing softly under the cabin lights. He held it out to me, his fingers brushing mine as he passed it over."Maybe something a little fizzy will help."
I smiled despite myself, feeling the cold condensation against my fingertips. "Oh, yes. I think it will."
I took a slow sip, savoring the crisp taste as my eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than I intended.
I took another sip of the champagne, trying to ignore how his words had sent a warmth curling in my chest. When I set the glass down, I felt his hand brush lightly against mine—just enough to make me glance up.
"Come here," he murmured, not really waiting for me to protest as he shifted, gently tugging me closer. His shoulder brushed mine, warm and steady, and before I knew it, my head was resting there, fitting perfectly as if it had always belonged.
I huffed softly, pretending to resist. "You do realize I'm perfectly capable of sitting upright like a normal human being, right?"
He chuckled, low and amused. "Oh, I know. But why fight comfort? You've been stiff all day. Relax for once, tough girl."
I tilted my head enough to give him a side-eye. "Tough girl? Really?"
"Would you prefer 'stubborn as hell'?" he teased, his voice dipping with a grin I could practically hear.
I let out a laugh despite myself. "Wow. So romantic."
His arm slipped around me, his fingers tracing small, absentminded patterns along my arm. "You want romance? Fine." He leaned in slightly, his breath brushing my hair. "I'm ordering you to stop worrying, because I'm not letting anything—Marcus, Dustin, or the universe—touch you while I'm here. Now, drink your champagne, enjoy this flight, and let me be the hero for once."
The words—simple, firm, and not at all joking—hit deeper than I expected. I smiled against his shoulder, feeling my heart tighten in that bittersweet way it always did around him.
"You're really annoyingly good at this whole comfort thing," I muttered, snuggling a little closer.
"And you're really bad at accepting it," he shot back, but softer this time.
Time had slipped by, and we were now less than an hour from landing. The quiet hum of the engines blended with the soft movie soundtrack playing on my phone. I was nestled against Dylan's side, my head resting on his shoulder, his arm loosely wrapped around me. Every now and then, he would press a slow kiss into my hair, like a silent promise that everything was fine.
But then his phone rang.
The moment he glanced at the screen, I felt the change in his body. His muscles went rigid under my cheek, his jaw tightened, and that calm, steady aura he carried like armor cracked—just slightly, but enough for me to feel the chill of something brewing.
"Yeah. Fynder here," he answered, his tone clipped, no-nonsense.
There was silence, a pause. Then his voice sharpened, slicing through the air."What do you mean the NYC bases got attacked?"
My head snapped up. His tone wasn't just tense—it was ice-cold fury barely leashed. His free hand curled into a fist on his knee, veins rising against his skin.
"Who the hell was on watch?" he snapped. "Don't you dare tell me this happened under your nose. How many men were on shift?"
The voice on the other end tried to explain, but I could hear Dylan's breathing grow heavier, harsher. His composure was cracking like glass under pressure.
"You're telling me… you're telling me that they broke through all three gates?" He stood abruptly, the seatbelt pulling taut against his waist before he yanked it free. He was pacing now, his hand raking through his hair, jaw grinding so tight I could see the muscle twitch in his cheek.
"Find out how. NOW. I don't care if you rip the damn servers apart—trace the breach. Who did this?" His voice boomed, low but lethal, the kind of anger that made every word land like a threat.
Another pause. Then his tone darkened, dropping into something cold and commanding."Listen to me. I don't care if you're outnumbered—pull every single man you can from the Jersey side. Fortify the perimeter. If anyone—anyone—sets foot past our line, you take them down. No hesitation. Do you understand me?"
The person must have stuttered or hesitated, because Dylan's voice snapped like a whip."No excuses! You hold the line or I'll find someone who will!"
He cut the call so abruptly that the sharp click seemed to echo in the quiet cabin. His breath came heavy, shoulders rising and falling as he stared at nothing for a long second.
Then he dialed again, fingers trembling slightly—not from fear, but from a fury so tightly coiled it looked like it might explode.
"Lock down the south wing and activate lockdown protocols on the digital servers," he barked into the phone. "No one comes in, no one gets out. We've been hit hard enough already. If this is Dustin's doing, I want him traced. NOW."
He listened for a moment, then slammed the heel of his hand onto the small table, the impact making me jump. He growled under his breath, low and dangerous, his voice breaking with frustration as he said, "How the hell did they get close enough to even try this? Find me answers. I don't care how you do it."
I sat frozen, watching him pace like a caged predator, his fury radiating off him in waves. He wasn't just angry. He was burning. The kind of anger that wasn't wild, but ice-cold and sharp—like a blade honed for blood.
"Dylan…" I said softly, almost afraid to break through the storm.
He ended another call, his phone trembling slightly in his grip from how tightly he was holding it. When he finally looked at me, his eyes were dark, raw, and furious."It's Dustin," he muttered, voice low, dangerous. "It has to be. No one else has the power or the audacity to strike at NYC like this. He's pushing me. Testing me. He's trying to hit where it hurts most."
I looked at him, my voice catching slightly as I said his name. He turned to me, his eyes still burning with anger but softer for me alone. Without a word, he reached over, running his hand through my hair in a slow, grounding motion.
"It's okay. I'm here," he murmured, his tone calmer now but laced with that underlying storm. "I'll handle it. Don't worry, Ruth. You're safe with me."
Before I could respond, he got to his feet in one swift motion, his energy almost too much for him to stay still. I watched as he stormed toward the cockpit, his steps sharp and full of restless anger. I heard the muffled sound of his voice as he spoke to the pilot, demanding, "How long until we land?"
The pilot's calm reply must not have satisfied him, because Dylan returned with that same fire in his gaze, his jaw set like stone. He sat down heavily next to me, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped tightly as if he was holding himself together with sheer will.
The veins on his forehead stood out, throbbing with the tension that hadn't left him since that call. His breathing was steady but sharp, every inhale a silent effort to keep control. The rage in him wasn't just surface-level—it ran deep, like a fire burning through steel.
I reached for his hand, touching it lightly, and he unclenched his fist just enough for me to slip my fingers through his. He didn't look at me immediately, his eyes fixed on some invisible enemy ahead, but his hand squeezed mine—firm, reassuring, and unspokenly protective.
We waited in silence for the plane to land, the tension between us hanging heavy but unspoken. Dylan hadn't said much since the call—his mind was elsewhere, calculating, planning, no doubt already mapping out his next move. I could feel the weight of his anger even though he tried to shield me from it, his hand resting on mine like an anchor while his jaw stayed tight.
The moment the wheels hit the ground, everything shifted. It was as if Dylan slipped on a different version of himself—one that was colder, sharper, entirely in control. By the time the steps were rolled up to the plane, he was already standing, fixing his jacket with that smooth, effortless authority that came so naturally to him.
And then I saw them.
A line of black SUVs stretched across the private runway like a wall, each one gleaming under the dull airport lights. Beside them stood men—at least two dozen—dressed in tailored black suits, their presence imposing and organized. Each one carried heavy firearms, the kind you didn't see unless things were meant to be serious. Their faces were unreadable, a perfect mirror of discipline.
The moment Dylan stepped off the plane, every single one of them straightened. A ripple of movement passed down the line as they all greeted him in unison—a single nod, sharp and respectful.
That sight made me pause mid-step.
For a second, I just… watched.
This wasn't just a man I'd been teasing over breakfast or sharing quiet moments with at night. This was Dylan Fynder—the man with an empire so vast, so dangerously efficient, that even the shadows seemed to bend around him.
The sheer level of power he commanded hit me like a wave. It wasn't loud or boastful. It was quiet, controlled—deadly. He didn't need to raise his voice or make a scene; his presence alone was enough to make every man here fall into line.
I swallowed hard, my steps slowing as I followed him down. A part of me wanted to ask him about it, to know exactly how deep this world of his ran. But another part of me… didn't. Because what I saw in front of me told me everything I needed to know.
He was powerful.Way too powerful.
And yet, when his gaze shifted back to me, it softened in a way that made my chest tighten, like I was the only thing that could ground him in that storm brewing behind his eyes. Dylan reached for my hand at the last step of the plane and held it firmly, his thumb brushing against my knuckles in a slow, reassuring stroke.
"I'll be leaving from here, okay?" he said, his voice low, steady—too steady, like he was holding back the sharp edge of his temper. "One of these men will take you home, where you'll be safe. Nothing will happen to you, Ceren. Just… try not to worry too much, alright?"
I frowned, my chest tightening at his words. "I can come along. I know how to use a gun." My voice was soft but defiant—I wasn't fragile, and he knew it.
A shadow of a smile ghosted across his lips, but his eyes didn't waver. "I know you do, love. Believe me, I do. But I can't risk it." His hand cupped my face gently, tilting it toward him. "Please. Just go. I'll meet you tonight."
The plea in his voice made me falter. I wanted to protest, to insist on standing by his side, but something in his tone—the quiet desperation of a man already carrying too much—stopped me. Dylan wasn't just calm; he was restraining himself. He was all fire beneath that controlled exterior, and I didn't want to ignite that flame any brighter.
One of the men stepped forward, his posture rigid. "Sir, I'll take ma'am home."
Dylan's head turned sharply toward him, his gaze so sharp it made the man straighten even more. He analyzed him with a silence that carried more weight than words. Finally, Dylan gave a curt nod. "Where is William?"
"Sir, I believe he drove up to your base," the man replied quickly.
Dylan's jaw tightened. "Very well then. Take her home," he said, his voice like steel. Then, after a heartbeat, his tone sharpened, cutting like a blade. "And if anything happens to her—if you so much as blink and miss a threat—I will rip the skin off your bones. Remember that."
"Yes, sir," the guard said without hesitation, his voice firm but touched with nervousness.
I glanced past the man and spotted Henry and Nico—the guards who had accompanied me to Dylan's estate before. Familiar faces. They both gave me subtle nods, and I smiled faintly at them, though it felt forced. They probably didn't know the full truth about me—about Marcus, about my role—but the time to unveil it was coming soon. Too soon.
I turned back to Dylan, my feet heavier with every step as I followed the guard to the waiting SUV. The sleek black car gleamed under the fading sun, a silent promise of protection. Before getting in, I stole one last glance over my shoulder.
Dylan was still there, standing like a fortress surrounded by his men, his presence dominating the scene. Then he, too, moved, stepping into his own car with the quiet precision of someone about to walk into war.
The car purred steadily along the dimly lit roads, but the atmosphere inside was anything but calm. I sat quietly in the back seat, my legs crossed, my fingers fidgeting with my phone as I scrolled aimlessly. Outside, Antalya's nightscape blurred past—glowing streetlamps flickering against the sleek, black glass of the tinted windows. Normally, I would've admired the beauty of the quiet streets, but something inside me felt… off.
"You'll be home in no time, miss. Don't worry," the driver said suddenly, his voice slicing through the silence.
I lifted my gaze from the screen, offering a polite smile. "Yes, thank you," I replied, but my voice felt small, uncertain.
It wasn't his words that unsettled me—it was the way he said them. The tone was calm but hollow, like he was forcing the sound of reassurance. When our eyes met briefly in the rearview mirror, something about the way his smirk curled unnerved me. It wasn't friendly. It wasn't professional. It was… knowing.
He adjusted the mirror, his dark eyes lingering on me for one second too long, and I felt a chill crawl up my spine. I shifted in my seat, suddenly hyper-aware of every move he made.
Relax, Ruth. He's one of Dylan's men, I told myself, but my gut wasn't buying it.
Trying to distract myself, I returned to my phone, scrolling through meaningless updates, but my thoughts kept darting back to that eerie smile. I stole another glance at him. His posture was relaxed—too relaxed. Like someone who wasn't afraid of being caught doing something wrong.
The car took a sudden, sharp turn, throwing me slightly against the door. I straightened immediately."Um… this isn't the usual way home," I said cautiously, my voice low, testing him.
He didn't respond. His grip on the steering wheel tightened, veins bulging faintly under his skin. A prickle of unease ran across my arms.
"Hey," I said a little louder, my tone firm this time, "where are we—"
I stopped mid-sentence.
Because at that exact moment, he reached into his jacket pocket and, with deliberate precision, pulled out a black balaclava. My breath caught.
In one smooth, unnervingly casual motion, he dragged it over his head, covering his face entirely.
My heart plummeted."What the hell are you doing?!" I yelled, panic flashing through me like fire.
I yanked at the door handle—locked. My fingers scrambled frantically across the panel, but the child lock clicked back in place with a mocking finality. My breathing came faster, louder.
Then came the sound. A faint, ominous hiss.
At first, I thought it was my own breath, but then the smell hit me—chemical, bitter, suffocating. The air inside the car was changing, becoming heavy, almost sticky. Gas. Oh God, it's gas.
"STOP THE CAR!" I screamed, coughing as my throat burned. "STOP IT NOW!"
But he didn't. He didn't even look at me. He just kept driving, his voice low and disturbingly calm when he finally spoke."You'll reach home… only if I take you there."
The words were like ice stabbing into my chest.
I grabbed my phone, my trembling fingers desperate to call Dylan—but my vision was already blurring. The world around me tilted, the edges of my sight darkening like someone had smeared ink across my eyes.
"No… no, no…" I gasped, coughing harder as the sweet, poisonous scent filled my lungs. My hands clawed at the seatbelt, my nails tearing into the fabric, but my strength was fading fast.
The phone slipped from my hand with a dull clack on the floor. I tried to reach for it, but my body felt heavy, like lead. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, loud and desperate.
Through the haze, I could just make out his eyes in the mirror. Cold. Emotionless. Predatory.
"Sleep, sweetheart," he said softly, almost mockingly. "You're not needed awake."
My last breath came out in a shaky gasp as darkness swallowed me whole.
When I gained consciousness, the first thing I felt was pain. A sharp, blinding ache throbbed through my skull, as if my head was being crushed under the relentless weight of a hydraulic press. My ears rang faintly, a high-pitched whine that made me nauseous.
I groaned softly, my breath shaky, and tried to open my eyes. At first, all I saw was darkness. Heavy, suffocating, almost alive. I blinked rapidly, forcing my lids to part wider. Slowly, a faint light flickered somewhere above, like an old bulb struggling to stay alive.
The moment that dull, cold light stabbed into my eyes, I winced and squinted, disoriented. Where was I? What… happened?
I tried to sit up, but the moment I moved, I felt a sharp tug. A cold, biting grip on my wrists and ankles. My heart skipped. I looked down, and horror slashed through me. My hands were tied—thick, coarse rope biting into my skin. The same cruel restraint dug into my ankles, tight enough to make my circulation sting.
"No… no, no…" I whispered, panic rising in my chest. I pulled against the ropes, testing them, but they only dug deeper into my flesh, rough and unyielding. The friction burned as I twisted my wrists, grunting, desperately trying to get free.
I looked around. My breath came quicker, the sound echoing slightly in the silence.
The room was… wrong.
It wasn't just dark; it was lifeless. A vast, empty, concrete space, dimly lit by just a couple of weak, flickering lights hanging from the ceiling. Shadows clung to the corners like predators, making it impossible to tell if anyone else was there. The air smelled metallic, almost like rust—or blood.
A cold shiver ran down my spine."Hello?!" My voice cracked, raw from the lingering gas I'd inhaled. "Who's there?! What do you want?!"
Nothing.
Just the faint buzz of the overhead lights and my own frantic breathing.
I tried to shift my position, my shoulders straining painfully against the ropes. A grunt of frustration escaped me as I wriggled, but the more I struggled, the more my skin screamed under the rough fibers. My palms were starting to burn, and I could already feel a raw spot forming.
My mind was spinning. How long was I out? Did Dylan know? Oh god, does he even know where I am?
The silence was oppressive, each second stretching into a lifetime. I could hear my own heartbeat, pounding in my ears like a drum.
I tilted my head, trying to listen—anything. Footsteps? Voices? Nothing. The room felt like it was swallowing me whole.
The silence was unbearable—so thick it made my skin crawl. I sat there, heart pounding, every breath shaky, every nerve in my body wound tight.
And then I heard it.
Footsteps.
Slow, deliberate. The sound of hard soles pressing against the concrete floor somewhere behind me. My entire body went rigid, my pulse leaping into my throat.
"Who's there?!" I snapped, my voice trembling despite my best effort to sound brave. I twisted in my ropes, craning my neck, trying to see over my shoulder. "Show yourself!"
Nothing. No answer.
The footsteps stopped.
I froze, my breaths coming in shallow, uneven gulps. It was worse than before—the silence after those steps was deafening. It felt like someone was standing right behind me, watching, waiting. My throat tightened. "Say something! Who are you?!"
A faint hiss filled the air—mechanical, sharp—and before I could process it, white-hot pain ripped through my body.
I screamed. My back arched violently as the shock from a device—something cold and metal pressed against my skin—sent a jolt straight through my nerves. My muscles convulsed, my wrists wrenching painfully against the ropes as I fought for control over my body.
The device clicked off, and I slumped forward, gasping for air. My chest heaved, every breath ragged and shallow. Tears stung my eyes—not from weakness, but from the sheer intensity of the pain.
I tried to speak but only managed a hoarse whisper, "...why?"
Then I saw him.
From the shadows behind me, a figure stepped forward, boots scraping against the ground. He moved slow, deliberate, as if savoring the moment. My eyes locked on him as he came into view under the weak overhead light.
The man crouched in front of me, his shadow cutting across my face. His silence was almost worse than any threat—until his hand shot out, fingers digging hard into my jaw.
"Look at you," he sneered, his voice a low growl, thick with malice. "You think you're untouchable just because you've got Dylan Fynder wrapped around your pretty little finger? Hah!" His grip tightened on my face, forcing my head back, the tendons in my neck straining. "You're nothing but a fucking pawn."
I glared at him, my lips pressed tight despite the pain. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.
His eyes narrowed, and then—another flash of pain ripped through me.He pressed the shock device against my side, and the electric current surged through my body like fire under my skin. I screamed, my body jerking violently against the ropes, wrists raw as I thrashed. Every muscle locked tight, my vision sparking with white dots.
"Beg," he hissed through clenched teeth, holding the device there a second longer, "beg for me to stop."
"Go to hell," I spat, my voice shaking, my throat raw.
The bastard laughed—a dark, mocking laugh that sent goosebumps down my arms. "Oh, you've got fire. I like that. But trust me, sweetheart, I'll burn that right out of you." He grabbed me by the collar of my shirt, yanking me forward so hard my shoulders screamed. "Do you know how easy it'd be to break someone like you? One fucking squeeze—" He wrapped his fingers around my throat, not enough to choke, but enough to make his point crystal clear. "—and you'd be nothing but a memory."
I fought to keep my breathing even, even as his nails bit into my skin. I could feel my pulse hammering under his grip. My chest heaved when he finally let go, my lungs gulping in air as if I'd been underwater.
"You think Dylan's gonna save you?" he sneered again, his face inches from mine, breath hot and foul. "By the time he realizes you're gone, I'll have ripped every little secret you're hiding out of you. And when I'm done—" He raised the shock device again, his finger teasing the trigger. "—you'll be begging me to end it."
The second shock hit me like lightning. My scream tore from my throat before I could bite it back. I felt my whole body lock up, my head snapping back, teeth gritting so hard I thought they might crack.
When the pain finally stopped, I sagged forward, every muscle trembling, sweat dampening my skin. I forced my head up, meeting his cold stare despite the tears threatening to fall. "You… won't… win," I managed to choke out, my voice hoarse but steady.
His smirk widened, cruel and sharp. "We'll see about that."
"You really think you're some kind of saint, don't you?" he spat, circling me like a wolf. His boots thudded against the cold concrete floor, each step dragging the silence out like a knife against skin. "You betrayed Dustin for that bastard Dylan. Betrayed the very hand that kept your sorry ass alive."
I glared at him through the haze of pain and exhaustion. "I don't owe Marcus a damn thing."
His hand cracked against my face, the sound echoing in the empty room. My head snapped to the side, my lip stinging as blood welled in the corner of my mouth.
"You ungrateful little whore," he hissed, crouching down until his face was inches from mine. His breath was rancid, a mixture of smoke and cruelty. "You think Dylan actually loves you? Think again. Nobody's gonna love a body that's been passed around like yours. You're filth. Your skin, your touch—it's like coal, burned black by every dirty hand that's been on you. You're disgusting."
My chest heaved, my hands twisting against the ropes that cut into my wrists. His words sank like acid into my veins, but I refused to let him see me break. I spat blood at the floor near his boots, my voice shaking but defiant. "At least I'm not a coward hiding behind dustins's shadow."
His jaw clenched, and with a snarl, he grabbed my chin so hard I thought he might snap it. "Don't you fucking talk about Dustin like that. You wouldn't last a day without him. You were nothing before he picked you up from that brothel floor. You'll be nothing again once I'm done breaking you." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Dylan won't save you. He'll find out what you are—nothing but a broken, used-up piece of trash—and when he does, he'll throw you away like all the others."
My breath shook, but anger bubbled beneath the fear, twisting into something sharp. "You don't know a damn thing about Dylan… or me."
"Oh, I know enough," he sneered. "You're his little toy right now. But once he sees the truth? Once he sees the filth under all that fake strength? He'll be disgusted too. No man truly loves a whore, sweetheart. Not when her soul's been carved up by every filthy hand before him."
The words hit hard—too hard—but I held his stare, even as my eyes burned with tears. I wouldn't let him see me break.
He laughed, the sound hollow and cruel. "You're trembling. You hate hearing the truth, don't you?" He pressed the shock device against my collarbone, close enough for me to feel its heat, the hum of energy ready to strike. "Should I remind you again just how weak you really are?"
The device pressed against my collarbone, and then the searing jolt of electricity tore through me. My back arched violently, a strangled cry ripping from my throat as the ropes bit deeper into my skin. The shock left my body quivering, every nerve set on fire. My breath came in ragged, desperate pulls, but I bit down hard on my lip to stifle the sob threatening to escape.
The room blurred. The stench of mold and metal around me twisted into another smell—cheap perfume and cigarette smoke. My vision swam, and suddenly I wasn't in the dark, damp cell anymore. I was back there. The brothel.
I saw the narrow hallway lined with dirty red wallpaper, heard the creak of bedsprings and the muffled cries of women behind closed doors. I felt the rough carpet under my bare feet, the collar around my neck, the weight of their hands. My body froze in memory, trembling with the ghost of every touch I'd tried to forget.
Marcus's voice bled through the memories like poison. "Smile, Ruth. Don't make them think you're dead inside. Nobody pays for a corpse."
My throat closed. My chest burned. I could still hear the chains clinking, still feel the cold floor against my knees. The years of degradation, of being treated like nothing but a body to use, slammed into me like a tidal wave.
You're nothing but a whore, the man's voice echoed in my head, overlapping with Marcus's. No one will ever love you.
A sob shook loose before I could stop it.
Then, through the haze, I saw him. Not Marcus. Not this bastard with the shock device. Dylan. His face broke through the darkness like light piercing through smoke. His steady gaze. The way he held me when I shook from nightmares. The way he looked at me like I was more than my scars, like I was worth something. His voice whispered in my mind: "Exactly where you belong, my Ceren."
A spark of defiance snapped inside me, stronger than the current ripping through my body. My nails dug into my palms. I am not that girl anymore. I am not what they made me.
The man grabbed my hair, yanking my head back to force me to look at him. "See that? Those tears? That's the real you. Broken. Weak. Just like you were in that filthy room, on your knees for anyone who paid."
His words burned, but this time I didn't look away. My voice came out rough but steady: "You can shock me, you can tie me down, but you'll never make me that girl again. You don't get to own me. Not anymore."
He snarled, his hand tightening around my throat as he cursed, but I didn't flinch. In my mind, I held onto Dylan—his voice, his warmth, the way he'd looked at me when I cried during his song. That was real. That was mine. And I would live to see him again.
"Marcus. Stop."
The voice was cold, commanding. I froze, my breath ragged, and turned my head slightly to see him step out from the shadows.
Dustin.
That bastard.
He moved with the casual confidence of someone who owned the room, his expensive shoes clicking softly against the concrete floor. There was a smirk painted on his face, one that only deepened as his eyes landed on me—tied, trembling, my breath shallow from the shocks.
"Well, well," he said, his tone mocking but disturbingly calm. "Didn't I warn you, pretty girl? Didn't I tell you not to mess with me?"
Before I could react, he was crouched in front of me. His cologne—sharp and expensive—cut through the stench of rust and dust in the room, making my stomach turn. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a sleek, silver dagger. Its blade caught the dim light, gleaming like something made for both beauty and cruelty.
My breath hitched. "Don't—"
The cold edge of the blade pressed against my cheek. The sting was instant and brutal as he dragged the tip just enough to break the skin. Warm blood pooled and oozed down my face, trailing along my jaw.
I let out a small, choked groan, my body instinctively jerking against the ropes. But the bonds only bit deeper into my wrists.
Dustin chuckled low, the sound dark and chilling as he wiped the edge of the blade along my cheek, smearing the fresh line of blood with deliberate cruelty. He tilted his head, studying me like I was just another game piece on his board.
"You know," he murmured, his voice deceptively smooth, "I bet Dylan's already losing his mind trying to figure out where you are." His grin turned feral. "And he'll find out soon enough. Because I'm going to make sure he comes running."
I flinched as he dragged the blade across my cheek again, sharper this time, not enough to slice deep but enough to make my skin sting and another thin line of blood slide down. He leaned back slightly, admiring his work like an artist.
"You really think he can save you while his empire burns?" Dustin sneered, his eyes narrowing as he pulled out his phone. "Most of his bases are under attack as we speak. His people are busy fighting for their lives. How exactly do you think he'll make time for you?"
He crouched closer, his presence suffocating. "But let's give him a reason to prioritize, shall we?"
I froze as he raised the phone, its camera lens glinting. He gripped my jaw harshly, forcing my face toward him, the cold blade still pressed under my chin. Click. The shutter sound echoed, my bloodied face now captured as bait.
"There we go," he said with a twisted satisfaction. "This'll get his attention."
Dustin's fingers flew over the screen as he typed something before smirking at me. "A little gift for your precious Dylan… something to make him panic."
Marcus, standing behind him, laughed darkly. "He'll tear this city apart trying to reach her."
"That's the idea," Dustin replied with a wicked grin, sending the picture. "Let's see how fast your knight in shining armor can come when he's already bleeding from all sides."
I heard another chuckle from the side—low, mocking, and horribly familiar. My heart stopped. No. No… I know that laugh.
It couldn't be.It shouldn't be.
But when he stepped into the dim light, I felt my world collapse in on itself. My chest tightened so violently I thought I might choke. Lucas.
The name slammed into me like a sledgehammer. This was the boy who used to sneak me out to see the stars when life felt unbearable, the one who promised I'd always have someone in my corner. We had built years of trust, years of friendship… and now, seeing him here, smirking like a stranger—it felt like every memory had been turned into a lie.
Everything inside me shattered. I shook my head violently as tears blurred my vision. "No… no, you—you can't be here. Not like this."
Panic ripped through me, stronger than the bindings cutting into my wrists. I thrashed against the ropes, my pulse pounding in my ears, and let out a guttural scream that tore at my throat.
A sharp, burning pain ripped across my stomach as Marcus shocked me again. My body convulsed, and I cried out, gasping for breath.
"Shut up," Lucas snapped, his voice colder than I'd ever heard it. The same voice that once told me I was safe now sounded like a weapon. "You're being too loud."
I looked at him like I didn't even know him anymore. My chest heaved, betrayal clawing at me with nails of fire. "Why? Why would you do this to me?" My voice cracked under the weight of it. "You were my best friend. You—you were the one person I could count on when the world turned its back on me. I trusted you, Lucas!"
His smirk widened, cruel and hollow. He crouched slightly so I had no choice but to see him up close. "You trusted me," he echoed, like he was tasting the words. "And when did I ever say I was the right person to trust, huh?"
It felt like a knife had been plunged into my chest, twisting deeper with every word.
"You betrayed Dustin," he continued, his tone dripping venom. "I'm just doing the same thing to you. At least I'm loyal to one side."
My hands balled into fists, the rope biting into my skin as hot tears welled up. "You know he's not the good guy, Lucas! You know exactly what Dustin is capable of! You've seen it—you know!" My voice was almost a plea now, desperate to reach even a shred of the friend I once knew.
For a fraction of a second, I thought I saw hesitation in his eyes, like some small part of him remembered who we used to be. But then he scoffed, his jaw tightening as he leaned closer. "Good guy? There's no such thing in this world. There's power… and there's prey." He smiled sharply. "And guess which one you are right now?"
Dustin laughed bitterly, the sound like the crack of a whip in the suffocating darkness. It crawled over my skin, sharp and mocking, and settled deep in my bones.
A sudden flash of pain snapped me from my daze as Marcus nicked my wrist with his blade—just enough to break the skin. I winced, biting down hard on my lip to stop a sound from escaping. The thin line of blood that welled up gleamed under the dim light, warm and sticky as it trailed down my arm.
I am the prey here…
The thought slammed into me, cold and brutal, as if naming it would somehow make it worse. I was nothing but a trapped animal in this room—stripped of power, of safety. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, each pulse a reminder that I was alive… for now.
And they—Marcus with his dead, unblinking eyes, Dustin with that razor-sharp grin—they were the predators. Patient. Merciless. Playing with their food before the kill.
Marcus's fingers tightened on the hilt of his blade as he dragged the flat edge across my skin again, slow and deliberate. My breath hitched, but I didn't dare speak. I didn't dare give them the satisfaction of my voice.
My mind kept whispering it, though, over and over, like a cruel chant I couldn't shut out:
I am the prey. And they are the predators.