We need to talk.
The words ricocheted inside Elara's skull. She stumbled back, spine colliding with rough brick hard enough to knock the air out of her lungs. By the time she blinked, the alley was empty.
No black sedan.
No man with eyes dark as midnight.
Nothing.
Just her, a rusting dumpster, and the sick certainty that she was losing her grip on reality along with everything else.
Get it together. She pressed her palms flat against the wall, letting the sting ground her. You're exhausted. Stressed. Seeing things that aren't there.
But her hands wouldn't stop trembling. She fumbled for her phone, thumb scrolling to the number she had avoided for three weeks.
"Mercy General billing department, this is Janet."
"Hi, this is Elara Chen. I'm calling about my mother's account." Her voice cracked, each word like swallowing glass. "I… I need to discuss a payment plan."
Twenty minutes later, she hung up. A sour knot coiled in her stomach. They had given her a deadline: seventy-two hours to pay at least half the balance—or her mother's treatment would be suspended.
Seventy-two hours to find two thousand dollars.
A laugh tore from her throat, sharp enough to cut. She'd have better odds finding a unicorn.
The bus would've been smart. Responsible. Safe.
But three dollars might as well have been three hundred, and she couldn't afford it. Walking home meant two hours she didn't have. Her mother would be waiting for dinner, waiting for the practiced smile Elara had perfected—the one that lied through her teeth and said everything was fine.
So she cut through the Warehouse District.
Most people avoided it after dark. Hollow buildings with broken windows like blind eyes, streetlights that flickered out one by one, and shadows that moved as though they had their own agenda.
Perfect for someone who needed to vanish.
She hugged her jacket tight, heels clicking on wet pavement, the sound ricocheting off abandoned storefronts. The rhythm grew too loud in the silence, too sharp against the dead air.
Almost through. Just two more blocks.
That's when she heard them.
Voices—low, controlled, every clipped word heavy with violence.
Elara froze. Instinct screamed at her to turn, to run, to pretend she hadn't heard.
But curiosity had always been her flaw.
Just a glance. Just to see if someone needs help.
She crept forward, pressing against the brick corner, heart hammering so loud she swore they'd hear it. Slowly, she leaned and peered into the alley.
Three men in tailored suits, the kind that cost more than her rent, stood circling a fourth figure on his knees. Even in the weak light, she saw it—Italian leather, pressed lines, power stitched into every seam.
"You know why you're here, Marcus." The tallest one spoke with lazy confidence, like someone who had never been told no. "The books don't lie."
The kneeling man—Marcus—shook so violently his teeth clicked. "I can get the money back. Just give me time. Please, I have a family—"
"Had a family," another voice cut in, cold as stone. "Past tense."
God. I need to get out of here. Now.
But her legs refused to obey. Her body locked in place, horror rooting her to the ground. She should scream, call the police, do anything.
Instead, she watched as the first man slid something from his jacket. Metal caught the streetlight—sharp, merciless.
"Nothing personal, Marcus. Just business."
The gunshot cracked the night apart.
Marcus collapsed forward, body smacking the asphalt with a wet finality that would stain her dreams forever.
Elara slapped a hand over her mouth, smothering the scream clawing its way up her throat. Her phone—she needed to call 911, needed to—
The phone slipped from her shaking hands, hitting the ground with a clatter that split the silence wide open.
Three heads snapped toward her hiding spot in unison, like wolves catching a scent.
"Did you hear that?"
"Check it out."
Run.
The word ignited inside her like a flare.
She bolted, leaving her phone behind, heels skidding across the slick pavement as she tore down the street. Her lungs burned, every breath a ragged knife, footsteps pounding behind her, voices sharp with threat.
The main road. She just had to reach the main road—lights, people, witnesses—
Elara rounded the corner at full speed.
And slammed into a wall of muscle wrapped in expensive fabric.
Strong hands clamped down on her shoulders, steadying her before she could fall.
For a split second, relief surged—someone to help, someone who could save her—
Then she looked up.
The face above her was all sharp edges and shadow, starlight catching on cheekbones honed like blades. His jaw looked capable of cutting glass. But it was his eyes—black ice, merciless—that locked her in place. Eyes that seemed to see through her, straight to the parts she kept buried.
He was beautiful the way storms are beautiful. Magnificent. Terrifying.
"Easy," he murmured, voice a low vibration that shivered through her nerves. Too deep, too steady, too dangerous. "You're safe."
Safe. The word rang hollow. Nothing about him was safe. He carried danger the way others wore cologne—bergamot and smoke, gunpowder and power. Violence barely leashed beneath the surface.
"I have to go," she gasped, tugging against his grip. "They're coming, they'll—"
"No one's coming." His thumbs brushed across her collarbones, the touch so unexpectedly gentle it was obscene. "I made sure of that."
The words hit her like ice water. I made sure of that.
Her gaze darted past his shoulder. They were there—the three men from the alley. Waiting in the shadows. Waiting for him.
And suddenly she understood.
This wasn't a rescue.
This was a trap.
She tried to step back. His hands tightened—not enough to bruise, but enough to remind her of the truth. She wasn't going anywhere he didn't allow.
"Kael Thorne," he said, as though they'd been introduced at a cocktail party, not standing over a fresh corpse. "And you, Elara Chen, have seen something you weren't meant to see."
Her blood iced over. He knew her name. He'd known it before tonight, before she stumbled into his nightmare.
This wasn't random. This was orchestrated.
"I didn't see anything," she whispered, hating how thin and trembling her voice sounded. "I was just walking home. I don't know what you're talking about."
His smile sliced like glass, sharp enough to wound. "Lying doesn't suit you, angel. Still, I have to admit—it's almost cute you think it matters."
Behind him, one of the suited men cleared his throat. "Boss, what do you want us to do with—"
Kael's hand shifted, sliding up until it rested lightly at her throat. Not squeezing. Just there. A promise. His thumb pressed over her pulse, and she knew he could feel it hammering.
"That depends," he said softly, eyes boring into hers with terrifying calm, "on how cooperative our little witness decides to be."
The world tilted. This morning she'd been worrying about hospital bills, her job, making rent.
Now she was staring into the eyes of a killer. A man who held her life the way someone might hold a butterfly—fragile, delicate, ready to be crushed with the slightest pressure.
And the worst part?
Something deep inside her recognized him. Not his name. Not his face. But the darkness behind those eyes—beautiful and terrible.
The same darkness that whispered she was already his.