Skyler

Rayne stood between me and the men, in a black tailored suit immaculate despite the grime and filth of the alley. His pale skin seemed almost luminous in the dull autumn light, a stark contrast to the shadows pooling around him. His sharp features were composed, unnervingly calm, but his grey eyes told another story. They blazed with a quiet, simmering fury that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

There was a grace to the way he stood—elegant, controlled—but it wasn't the elegance of a gentleman. It was the lethal elegance of a predator poised to strike.

His gaze flicked to me, and I froze.

The weight of his irritation settled over me, sharp and tangible, like a scolding I wasn't entirely sure I didn't deserve.

"The cavalry has arrived," he sighed, his tone dripping with sarcasm, as though this entire ordeal was an annoying inconvenience.

Something inside me twisted. He wasn't here out of kindness or concern; that much was clear. But he was here. And despite the bite in his words, the relief that washed over me was so overwhelming, I felt dizzy with it.

Before I could say anything, his arm looped around my waist in one fluid motion. His touch was firm, unyielding, and it sent a jolt through me that was equal parts indignation and something else I didn't dare examine.

"Wait—" I started, but my protest was swallowed by the air as we shot upward.

The world blurred, a rush of wind and light stealing the breath from my lungs. A scream caught in my throat, too overwhelmed by the sheer impossibility of what was happening.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, we landed softly. My feet touched solid ground—well, rooftop—and my legs buckled slightly beneath me. I staggered backward, gripping the ledge for balance as my heart thundered in my chest.

Rayne released me, but not immediately. His hand lingered just a second, his grip steady and warm, as though some part of him wasn't quite ready to let go—or wasn't sure he should.

His gaze flicked over me, sharp and assessing. For a moment, he didn't move, his grey eyes narrowing as they trailed down the length of me, searching.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice low but carrying an edge I couldn't quite place.

"I'm fine," I said quickly, but my voice betrayed me, shaky and uneven.

He didn't seem convinced. His gaze swept back up, and then it stopped—fixed on something.

"What—" I started, but before I could finish, his hand rose, his thumb brushing gently across my cheek.

The world seemed to pause, the cool rooftop air disappearing under the warmth of his touch.

I blinked, my breath catching in my throat.

There was nothing soft about Rayne. His presence was sharp and commanding, his movements precise and deliberate. And yet, in that moment, his touch was impossibly tender, his thumb sweeping lightly over the faint mark Red Shirt had left on my skin.

The fury in his eyes was quiet but unmistakable, simmering beneath his carefully controlled expression.

"It's nothing," I managed, trying to break the silence, but the words sounded hollow even to me.

His gaze lingered for a beat too long, his thumb still resting against my cheek as though erasing the mark wasn't enough. As though he wanted to remove the memory of it entirely.

Then, just as quickly as it had happened, his hand dropped, his expression smoothing back into indifference.

"Stay here while I deal with the idiots," he said, his voice calm and detached.

I opened my mouth to argue—Why? What are you going to do?—but the words died on my lips as he turned away.

He stepped off the edge of the roof without hesitation.

I rushed to the ledge, my hands trembling as I peered down.

Rayne landed silently in the alley below, his polished shoes barely making a sound against the pavement. The men gawked at him, their drunken bravado faltering as they tried to process what they had just seen.

"How'd you do that?" one of them stammered, his voice tinged with fear.

Rayne tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable, his voice dark and reprimanding. "Now, that would be telling."

Red Shirt stepped forward, trying to reclaim his position as leader. His sneer was shaky at best. "There's one of you and all of us." He gestured to his friends, who were clearly uneasy but still trying to look tough.

Rayne let out a soft laugh, low and sharp, like the sound of a blade being unsheathed. "Then let's even the odds," he said, raising a hand.

He snapped his fingers.

The sound cracked through the alley, unnatural and jarring. The men behind Red Shirt crumpled to the ground, their bodies slack and unmoving, as though their strings had been cut.

Red Shirt stumbled back, his eyes darting to his unconscious friends. His earlier confidence drained from his face, leaving only panic.

"L-look, man—I don't want trouble—"

"Then you shouldn't have touched her," Rayne interrupted, his tone colder than the autumn wind.

Before Red Shirt could react, Rayne moved. One moment he was standing still, the next his hand was clamped around the man's throat.

Red Shirt gasped, his boots scraping against the ground as Rayne lifted him off his feet with no more effort than one might swat a fly.

Rayne's expression remained calm, almost bored, but his grey eyes burned with a chilling intensity. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper.

"I should send you to my brother," he murmured, his words deliberate, cruel. "He handles men who can't keep their hands to themselves. I'd even ensure you got... special treatment for daring to touch-"

His gaze flicked back toward me, searching for the right words. Then his lips curved into a faint smirk.

"My pet," he finished.

My stomach flipped. Pet?

Rayne drew back his fist, the motion slow and deliberate, as though he were savoring the moment before the strike.

My heart seized.

He was going to kill him. One swift punch, and the man's chest would cave in. I had no doubt. Rayne was powerful enough to make it quick, and judging by the icy calm in his expression, he wouldn't lose a wink of sleep over it.

But I would.

The thought hit me like a punch to the gut.

I didn't care about Red Shirt. Not after what he'd done, what he'd tried to do. He deserved to face consequences—terrible ones. But not like this. Not at the hands of a demon bound to me.

The witches' creed whispered in my mind, steady and insistent: Do no harm.

My magic was tied to my intent, to the choices I made. If I let Rayne kill this man, his death would leave a stain—a crack in the foundation of everything I believed in. Every spell I cast, every charm I created, would carry the shadow of this moment.

I wasn't like Rayne. I didn't want to be.

This isn't who I am.

Rayne's fist drew back farther, his grey eyes burning with a quiet fury.

"STOP!" I ordered, my voice cutting through the night like a whip.

He froze mid-motion, his muscles taut, his jaw tightening. For a moment, I thought he might defy me, his fury too strong to leash. But slowly, he lowered his fist, his hand unclenching with deliberate precision.

Red Shirt stumbled backward, clutching his throat as he gasped for air. He didn't wait for an invitation to leave, bolting from the alley without so much as a glance back at his unconscious friends.

Rayne adjusted his cuffs, his expression once again calm and composed, as if nothing had happened. He turned his gaze upward, his grey eyes locking with mine.