He had changed. The blood-stained dress shirt from earlier was gone, replaced with a simple white cotton shirt, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm, revealing corded muscles and faint scars—etched reminders of past fights and old knife wounds.
His skin glowed faintly under the moon, pale and luminous, almost unnatural.
Even after the chaos of the day, even after fear and adrenaline, I couldn’t breathe properly.
He stole the air in the space between us.
At the altar, he’d been terrifying—an untouchable force of wrath and authority.
In the dimly lit Labyrinth, he had been a shadow, a phantom to be feared.
But here, under clean moonlight, he seemed sculpted from marble and rage, perfect and deadly, a force of nature wrapped in human skin.
My throat ached to speak, my body trembled, and still I could not tear my eyes away.
“Don’t kill me,” I blurted before I could stop myself.
The words ripped across my raw, spasming vocal cords. Pain lanced through my chest with each syllable, but they came out—hoarse, broken, but audible.
The long silence in the van had given my throat a fragile reprieve; I could speak now, just barely.
His eyes flicked to me—flat, unreadable, nothing human behind the storm-gray depths. No reaction, no sign of mercy or threat, only calm judgment.
“Step down,” he said, voice low, precise.
My heart slammed so hard it felt as though it might burst from my chest.
Legs trembling, knees weak, I obeyed, lowering myself to the pavement with meticulous caution.
He stepped back the instant I touched the ground, giving me space. It was a gesture masquerading as civility, but I felt the underlying warning: one wrong move, and this merciful distance could vanish in a heartbeat.
I stood there, exposed, vulnerable, every muscle coiled for flight, like an animal trapped with a predator.
My eyes darted to the building ahead—a low, modern structure with clean floodlights and a discreet sign: Pacific Crest Private Clinic.
Relief crashed into me, sudden and sharp, nearly sending my knees buckling. A hospital. Not some hidden labyrinth of blood and vengeance.
We stood in the night air, silence stretching taut between us. Minutes passed. He didn’t move. I didn’t dare breathe too loudly.
My fingers were clenched, white at the knuckles, hanging uselessly at my sides.
The soft chirp of insects and distant traffic became deafening in the stillness. Then movement drew my gaze.
A woman approached, emerging from the shadows with the quiet confidence of someone entirely at home in this controlled space.
Mid-thirties, petite, dark hair pulled into a perfect bun, pristine white lab coat over navy scrubs.
She walked toward us like she knew exactly what was happening, her eyes scanning me with clinical precision—yet there was kindness there, a softness that contrasted sharply with Ruslan’s oppressive presence.
“Ruslan,” she called softly, voice careful, respectful.
Her eyes flicked to me, observing without judgment.
“You said when she tries to speak, she coughs blood?”
“That’s correct,” he answered, clipped, precise.
His eyes didn’t leave me, but there was a thread of wariness now, tension barely restrained behind the perfect composure.
