Chapter Seven
Nolan
It's been a week since I last saw Ciel.
A week of silence. No notes. No sightings. No proof he's even alive. Just worry. Endless, gnawing worry.
We'd split up to throw them off—bus transfers, fake names, bad wigs. Every move was calculated for escape. And this town, this sleepy coastal place tucked far from the capital, was supposed to be the safe zone. Not too small. Not too big. Just quiet.
But quiet only makes my thoughts louder.
And my stomach.
It growls for the third time this morning, but I ignore it the same way I've ignored it for three days. I'm perched on the rim of a stone fountain inside the mall, hood drawn low. Trying not to look too homeless. Trying not to get kicked out.
I've been here for hours. Watching. Waiting. Hoping.
I rub the last of my money between my fingers—just enough for coffee, not enough for food or shelter. The paper is soft, nearly worn through.
God, I probably look like hell.
But none of that matters. Not until I find him.
Ciel comes first. He always has.
The what-ifs eat at me. What if they caught him? What if—
No. I won't think it.
Please, God. Don't let it be that.
I scan the crowd again, my eyes trained by survival to catch the smallest flicker. And then—
Red.
Not auburn. Not ginger. Red.
My heart stops. My breath catches in my throat.
Ciel.
It's him. I'd know him anywhere. That slight frame. That careful walk, like every step is an apology.
My heart stops. My breath catches in my throat.
Ciel.
It's him. I'd know him anywhere. That slight frame. That careful walk, like every step is an apology.
But he isn't alone.
A tall man walks beside him. Broad-shouldered. Casual clothes. Not one of the dukes. Not a known enforcer. But that doesn't matter.
Because predators don't need to be famous.
And Ciel looks… trusting. Too trusting.
My chest seizes.
"Ciel!" I shout, my voice cracking. "Ciel, wait—!"
But he doesn't hear me. Doesn't turn.
The stranger opens the door of a massive black truck—expensive, foreign, gleaming like an animal crouched for the kill. Ciel climbs in. Willingly.
The door shuts.
The engine roars.
And they're gone.
"Ciel!" I scream again, legs burning as I sprint across the lot. Too slow. Always too slow.
By the time I hit the curb, the truck has vanished into the road, swallowed by distance.
Panic claws at me. My lungs are fire. My vision blurs.
No. No, no, no.
I whip toward the line of taxis. Salvation. I fling myself into the first one, slamming the door shut.
"Follow that black truck!" I yell.
The driver stares at me in the mirror like I've grown two heads. "What truck?"
"That one!" I twist around, pointing wildly at the road. "Big, black, red accents—just GO!"
He mutters something about "damn dramas," but the engine growls and the car lurches forward.
I press my forehead to the window, every muscle in me straining toward the vanishing horizon. Hold on, Ciel. I'm coming.
*
The taxi screeches into the hospital lot. My heart hammers.
And there it is.
The truck. Sleek, monstrous, gleaming under the morning sun.
The same one.
I barely hear the driver slam into park before I'm out the door, legs moving on pure adrenaline. I don't make it halfway across the lot before someone jerks me back by the arm.
The shock nearly topples me. "What the hell—?"
The driver. His eyes are flat, annoyed. "The fare."
I blink at him, panting. "Oh. Right."
I dig into my pocket, pull out every scrap I have. A pitiful handful of coins. A few limp bills.
He stares at it. Then his lip curls.
"You've got to be kidding me."
"That's all I've got," I rasp.
"This doesn't even cover half." His voice is sharp, disgust curling in the edges. "What do you think I'm running, a charity?"
Over his shoulder, the hospital doors slide open. People in scrubs. Visitors with flowers. Somewhere in there—Ciel.
"Please," I beg, shoving the money at him. "My friend—he's inside. He's in trouble. I just need—"
"Not my problem," the driver cuts me off.
"Look, I'll get you the rest later, I swear—"
He snorts. "Do I look like an idiot? You'll vanish the second I let you go. That's theft."
"It's not theft, it's—" My voice breaks. "It's an emergency!"
Eyes are on us now. A woman with a stroller pauses. A nurse slows her stride. Whispers hum like static.
The driver pulls out his phone.
My stomach plummets. "What are you—"
"Calling the cops," he says flatly. "Let them sort you out."
"No. No, please—don't—"
"You think I'm joking?"
I reach out desperately, but he jerks back.
"Don't touch me."
"I'm not trying to skip out!" I'm pleading now, voice hoarse. "Just give me a chance—please—"