S E L E N E

The rain is cold, slicing against my skin as I bolt down the dingy-lit, wet alleyway. My boots slip on the slick pavement and every nerve in my body screams to keep upright. I have so many questions, but I don't ask them— not with the sound of heavy footsteps crashing through the night behind us. Not with him right on my heels, bleeding and barking commands.

In hindsight, I don't know how smart it is to be listening to a man who is clearly injured after said regular Thursday night. 

"Faster, cupcake," sharp and impatient.

"I'm going!" I snap, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to sound defiant.

The alley seems endless, stretching into the darkness with no promise of safety at the end. Every step feels slower than the last, my lungs burning as fear presses harder against my ribs. My mind races, a whirlwind of curses and confusion. 

Who the hell is this guy? 

What kind of mess has he dragged me into or am I the mess? 

And how the fuck does he know my name?

I glance back, and the sight nearly stops me in my tracks. He's still close, his tall frame cutting through the rain like it doesn't even touch him, his eyes locked on me with unrelenting focus. Even drenched in blood and exhaustion, he moves with a purpose that sends a shiver down my spine. 

"Eyes forward!" he barks, snapping my attention back to the alley. "You trip, we are both dead."

"How charming," I spit through gritted teeth, though I don't dare slow down.

The alley finally spills into a side street, and I skid to a stop, my chest heaving as I scan the rain-soaked darkness. There's no sign of a car, just rows of shadowy buildings and empty streets stretching in both directions. 

My panic spikes as the distant sound of shouting filters through the storm. 

They're close.

"What fucking car?" I shout throwing my hands in the air while spinning around to face him.

He's already at my side, clutching his wound with one hand as he reaches into his jacket with the other. "It's down the block," he growls, jerking his chin toward the corner. "Keep moving."

"I swear to God, if this is some kind of—"

Before I can finish, a gunshot cracks through the air, the sound so loud it drowns out the rain. My body locks up, and for a split second, all I can hear is the pounding of my heartbeat. I see him grimace and roll his shoulder. 

Did he just get shot? 

"Go, Selene!" The same hand he'd been holding his side with clamps around my wrist, yanking me forward just as another shot rings out, splintering the wall behind us.

I stumble, barely catching myself as he pulls me toward the corner, his grip like iron despite the blood trailing down his arm. The storm seems louder now, the wind howling through the narrow street like it's mocking us.

We round another corner, and finally, I see it—a black SUV parked haphazardly against the curb, its windows tinted and its engine running like it's been waiting for us.

"Get in," he orders, releasing my wrist and shoving me toward the passenger side.

I don't argue. My fingers fumble with the handle, my breath fogging the glass as I throw myself inside. The interior smells like leather and mint, the seats cold against my soaked clothes. He slides in a second later, slamming the door behind him with a force that rattles the frame.

I look behind us and see figures closing in. "Drive," I scream. "Now. Please!"

He doesn't even look at me. Instead, he reaches for the glove compartment, yanking it open to reveal a handgun nestled next to a stack of papers.

"What the hell are you doing?" I demand, my voice climbing higher with every word. "They're going to catch us!"

"They won't," he says, his tone maddeningly calm as he checks the magazine. "Not unless you keep screaming like that."

I gape at him, my chest heaving with anger and disbelief. "You're insane."

"Maybe," he mutters, sliding the gun into a holster under his jacket. "But I'm alive. And if you want to stay that way, I suggest you let me kill these fuckers before they kill us or worse tell whoever hired them of your whereabouts."

The back window shatters before I can respond, glass spraying into the car as bullets rip through the air. I scream, ducking instinctively as he slams the car into gear.

The SUV growls like a feral beast as he throws it into reverse, the tires screeching against the wet pavement. He jerks the wheel hard, spinning the vehicle into position, side-on with the masked men pursuing us. My fingers dig into the seat.

"This isn't handling it!" I shout, my voice barely audible.

"Relax, cupcake," he says, his tone maddeningly calm as his sharp eyes lock onto the targets. "This is the easy part."

And then, with lethal precision, he raises the gun.

One.

Two.

Three shots.

Each one lands, and the silence that follows is deafening.

"Easy?" I choke, the word tasting bitter as bile rises in my throat. My gaze flicks to the men collapsing in the rain, their lifeless bodies crumpling like discarded paper. "Oh my God, are they dead!?"

"Yes," he says simply, his tone indifferent as he shifts the SUV back into gear. "And we're alive. That's how this shit usually works."

I stare at him, the fear coiling in my stomach morphing into hot, white anger. "Who the hell are you?" I demand as adrenaline and rage collide. "And how the hell do you know my name?"

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he glances at me briefly, his dark eyes glittering with something sharp and unrelenting—violence, maybe, or something even darker.

"You really don't know?" he asks, low and dripping with challenge.

"Yes!" I snap, the word cutting through the tension like a blade. "I deserve to know what kind of mess you've dragged me into!"

His lips curl into a smirk, razor-sharp and unapologetic. "Dragged you into? Cupcake, this is your mess—I'm just cleaning it up."

I stare at him, every nerve in my body screaming at me to argue, to demand more answers, but the weight of his words lingers, suffocating me. My mess? What the hell does that even mean?

And yet, as much as I hate him, as much as I want to scream and shove him out of the driver's seat, I trust him.

**

The SUV barrels through the rain-slick streets, its growl cutting through the night like a war cry. I clutch the door handle, my breaths coming shallow and fast as the city blurs around us. My brain is firing on all cylinders—panic, adrenaline, questions—but I can't seem to form a single coherent thought.

He hasn't spoken since his cryptic declaration about this being my mess, and the silence between us feels heavy and tension-filled. 

"Where are we going?" I finally manage, needing to break the silence before it drives me to insanity.

"Somewhere safe."

"That's reassuring," I mutter, though the sarcasm falls flat even to my own ears.

He doesn't respond, his focus locked on the road. His hands grip the wheel tightly, blood smearing across the leather. He was shot, I glance at the arm he's not using to drive with. I want to ask if he's okay—if he's losing too much blood—but the words stick in my throat.

Instead, I sit in the strained silence as he weaves through the maze of dark streets, his movements meticulous despite the disorder. After what feels like an eternity, the SUV pulls into a narrow, dimly lit passage. He kills the engine, and the sudden quiet feels unnerving.

"Get out," he mutters, shoving his door open.

I glance around, my heart sinking. The building looming above us looks more like a condemned warehouse than a safe house, its brick exterior streaked with grime and graffiti.

"This is safe?" I ask skeptically, stepping out into the rain.

He doesn't answer, slamming the door behind him and heading toward a rusted metal door at the side of the building. He keys in a code on a weathered panel, and the lock clicks open with a mechanical groan.

"Get inside, cupcake," he orders, holding the door open for me.

I hesitate, glancing back at the rain-drenched lane. It's not like I have a choice, though. With a resigned sigh, I step through the doorway, the air inside heavy with the scent of damp concrete and rust.

The space beyond is unexpectedly clean—bare but functional. A few mismatched chairs, a worn couch, and a table stacked with maps and papers dominate the main room. A door on the far side leads to what I assume is a bedroom, and a small kitchenette occupies the corner. Opposite it is a shower and exposed bathtub, a door beside it which I assume is the toilet. 

If it wasn't for the life and death situation, and maybe with the right lighting this place would have that cute, industrial aesthetic going for it. 

"This doesn't look like a safe house," I state, crossing my arms.

The stranger raises an eyebrow and then as if to prove a point, he walks towards the kitchenette and presses against a power switch on the wall. Several concealed spaces open to reveal a range of firearms and monitors— a three-sixty view of the exterior of the premises. "better?"

"You really have the whole secret agent thing down, don't you?"

His lips twitch, but that smirk I hate to admit I like doesn't quite form. "Sit down," he says instead, gesturing toward the couch. "You're shaking."

"I'm not—" I stop mid-sentence, glancing at my trembling hands. My teeth are chattering, too, though I hadn't noticed until now. Whether it's from the cold or the adrenaline, I'm not sure.

He crosses the room to a cabinet, pulling out a med kit and setting it on the table. "You want to know what's going on?" he asks, his voice gruff. "Then come here and pull this bullet out of my shoulder, while we talk."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

"Déjà vu, cupcake." He lowers himself onto one of the chairs, wincing as he peels off his jacket. 

I glare at him, though my frustration is tempered by the sight of his blood-soaked shirt. "You're impossible," I mutter, grabbing the kit and moving to his side. He spreads his thighs and I step between them, "and it's Selene, not cupcake, which you clearly already know."

He doesn't flinch as I cut away his shirt, exposing the dressing across his side, which has blood seeping through. His skin is warm under my fingers, despite the chill in the room.

"Who are they?" I ask, focusing on cleaning the wound. "Those men?"

"Mercenaries," he says simply. "Hired by someone who wants you dead."

"Me?" My hands freeze, the antiseptic-soaked cloth hovering over his skin.

"Yes, you," he replies, his gaze never leaving mine, this time it's like he's seeing me in a new light. "I don't know if you're just playing ignorant here, Selene... Or if you've bought into your own lie with some kind of dissociative episode?"

A sharp pain slices through my skull, a flash of something just out of reach—familiar but distant. I press my free hand to my temple, wincing. "I... I don't know what you're talking about."

He leans forward slightly, his voice low and cutting. "Selene, you're the only survivor of the assassination of your family. You're the last living heir to Verranie Holdings. One of the world's largest hotel conglomerates. Do you have any idea what that means?"

I blink at him, my throat tightening as the weight of his words slams into me. "You got the wrong girl, sorry to disappoint. I'm a waitress, and have been for as long as I can remember."

"How far exactly do you remember?" His expression darkens,  "You've done well, staying under the radar whether unconsciously or consciously. I'll give you that. But someone found you. And they're not after your charming customer service skills—they want the keys to your father's empire."

The room tilts slightly, my grip on the cloth faltering as my breath quickens. "My father's empire? I don't—"

"You're worth billions, cupcake," he says with a weary sigh, his tone edged with dark amusement. "Poor thing, strutting around like there isn't a massive price tag on your head. Newsflash: there is. A big one."

A sharp retort burns on the tip of my tongue, ready to bite back, but the pain in my head strikes again—white-hot and blinding. My vision blurs, his face dissolving into a haze as the room tilts and swallows me whole. Darkness takes over before I can even utter a word.

Warmth engulfs me as I descend and the hard floor never seems to come... 

** 

The sound of water echoes through the room, steady and rhythmic, like a drumbeat meant to soothe but failing miserably. I sit up slowly, blinking against the dim light, my pulse quickening as my surroundings come into sharper focus. This isn't my cramped little apartment. This is real.

The events of the night hit me like a freight train—gunshots, running for my life, the cold sting of rain, and him. I rub my temples, trying to ease the residual ache in my skull as I search for the source of the sound.

The shower. 

The very exposed shower with only glass between us. 

I shouldn't look.

I should turn away, focus on figuring out how to get out of this mess, how to piece together the absurd puzzle he's dumped in my lap. But my eyes betray me, drawn to the shadowy figure behind the fogged glass like a moth to a flame.

Drawn to him. 

* *

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XX.