The air in Rome was colder than the memory of my fears, and yet it seemed to wrap around me as Lysander dragged me down the stairs. Each step echoed like a war drum through the club's empty corridors. The scent of gunpowder, blood, and burned leather followed me, filling my lungs and reminding me that every second mattered.
"Fast," he said without looking back, his claws barely visible beneath the fabric of his gloves. "They won't wait."
I could barely keep up with his pace. Every fiber of my body screamed, trembled, begged to give in—but I couldn't. Not after seeing what Lysander was capable of. And not after his eyes had chosen me, even though I still didn't know why.
We reached a narrow side corridor, dark, lit only by emergency lights that flickered with every distant detonation. The shouts of my uncles and their men were a feral murmur, a reminder of the war we had just ignited.
"Where are we going?" I asked, gasping, feeling the frantic rhythm of my heart pounding like a drum of fear against my chest. "I don't know where—"
"It doesn't matter," he replied, and for the first time his voice sounded vulnerable, human. "As long as I'm with you, where matters less than who."
A sharp impact slammed against the wall, and plaster dust filled our throats. Lysander crouched instinctively, and I did the same, feeling desperation slice through the air around us. Every second was a blade suspended above our heads, ready to fall.
The corridor opened into a basement. A rusted metal door slammed shut behind us with a thud that reverberated through my bones. I tried to breathe normally, but adrenaline and fear had dried my throat, and only a thin sound slipped from my lips.
"Are we… safe?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer. No place is safe when the mafia—and something else, something inhuman—is hunting you.
"You're never safe," Lysander said, bracing his back against the door. "But here, for now, they'll kill each other first."
I felt his gaze on me—dense and warm, full of promises I didn't understand and dangers I did. A single second of contact was enough to know I could trust him… even if trusting him meant stopping my desperate attempt to run.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked softly, almost a whisper. "Why risk yourself for me?"
Lysander lowered his head, and for a moment, he looked human. Too human to believe. His fingers brushed mine as they crossed, and a shiver ran down my spine.
"Because you are… different," he said slowly, weighing each word as if it were a weapon. "Because I won't allow them to destroy you before you learn what you can be."
Silence settled between us. Only distant impacts, footsteps, and shouts reminded us that outside, the world continued its dance of death. Yet inside me, something was awakening—something Lysander seemed to know by heart.
"What do they want from me?" I asked, unable to contain the anxiety consuming me. "Why my family?"
"Because you are more than blood and a name," he replied, a restrained edge of fury in his voice. "You are… the key. And no one who knows that will let you live without trying."
The weight of his words crushed me—but it also ignited something inside me. There was something within me even I didn't know, something violence and betrayal had failed to erase. Lysander sensed it, and without a word, tightened his grip on my hand.
A distant roar made us both flinch. I looked at him, and he met my gaze without fear, with that impossible calm that seemed to challenge even death itself.
"Get ready," he whispered. "This is only the beginning."
And I understood there was no turning back. Rome was no longer my home—it was a hunting ground. And we were the piece that would decide how fate moved.
We exited the basement through a back door that opened onto a narrow alley. The rain had started again, fine and icy, clinging to my skin like a reminder of reality. Rome smelled of damp stone, metal, and fear, and every drop that struck my face seemed to blend my adrenaline with the city's contained fury.
"Stay behind me," Lysander ordered, moving with the certainty of someone who belongs to the shadows themselves. His steps were silent, measured, yet they dominated the space around him like those of a supreme predator.
I could barely follow. Every breath was a thread, every heartbeat a war drum. The streets were empty, but I knew better than to lower my guard for even a second. My uncles and their men could be waiting around any corner—and Lysander… Lysander could feel it.
A metallic noise made me turn, and for an instant, I felt the world collapse. A group of armed, hooded men emerged from the darkness. They hadn't recognized me yet.
Neither had I breathed.
"Behind me," Lysander whispered.
And it was as if the air itself moved at his command. His claws flashed briefly beneath his jacket, and he launched himself at them. Every movement was impossible to follow—a blur that shattered the geometry of the alley.
Screams. Gunfire. The dull thud of bodies hitting stone.
I pressed myself against the wall, feeling the heat of blood splatter against the wet surface, mixing with the rain. Every second assaulted my senses: the smell of gunpowder, the cold biting into bone, the sound of metal tearing apart.
"Don't look," Lysander whispered behind me, his voice vibrating against my ribs. "Just trust me."
I did.
And as he destroyed those who stood in our way, something inside me shifted. It wasn't just fear. It was the certainty that I was alive because of someone who wasn't entirely human—someone who could rip a man's life away with a single motion.
When the alley cleared, Lysander took my hand. His eyes were glowing—not with threat, but with something that might be mistaken for tenderness if you didn't know the beast they held.
"Come," he said, his voice slicing through the sound of rain like a blade. "There's a safe place. For now."
We ran. Each step on the wet cobblestones thundered in my ears like a war drum. I couldn't stop watching Lysander, trying to decipher the line between human and monstrous, between protector and hunter.
Finally, we turned a corner and found a large black vehicle, its lights off. Lysander opened the back door and gently pushed me inside. I sat there, shaking, unable to form a word.
"Fasten your seatbelt," he ordered. "This won't be a smooth ride."
He started the engine. It roared, and Rome fell behind us—a city soaked in rain and chaos. My uncles weren't going to stop easily. I knew it.
And Lysander did too.
"Where are we going?" I finally asked, breaking the silence, though my voice sounded cracked, fragile.
"To a place where no one can find us… yet," he replied, and for the first time I caught a trace of vulnerability beneath his Alpha mask.
Silence returned, broken only by rain drumming on the roof and the growl of the engine. I curled in on myself, trying to understand who this wolf-man was who had pulled me from danger—and who I was, destined to follow him into a world where death lurked in every shadow.
"This is only beginning," he murmured, as if reading my thoughts. "And neither of us will come out of this the same."
I nodded, unsure whether it was agreement or resignation. Outside, the city kept breathing, unaware of the war that had just begun, while inside the vehicle, an impossible alliance started to take shape.