At the touch of stone, I look around, feeling more aware of my vulnerability. “I’m fine,” I say quickly, trying to laugh it off. “I just needed to accept that I’m alone.”
His eyes flicker with something I can’t name. “Do you think you’re hallucinating me or something?” His voice teasing. “You’re obviously not alone, Aurelia. And I know I’m good-looking, but I didn’t think it was enough to cause a mental break.”
A startled laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. I swat his arm, immediately realizing I don’t know him well enough for that. “You’re a stranger,” I warn. “An overly confident one.”
This time his laugh surprises me—it’s not cruel, but deep and playful, confirming he’s still just a boy under all that danger in his eyes. For a second, I forget the smoke, the shadows, the weight in his stare. For a second, he feels almost… normal.
He flicks the last of his cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his boot. Then he jerks his chin toward the curb. Parked there, gleaming even in the dim alley light, is a sleek, all-black motorcycle. The kind of bike you only see in movies. The kind that screams freedom and risk.
“I can get you back here before anyone notices,” he says, hushed but sure, it’s already decided. And the way he’s looking at me—like I’m something rare, something worth studying—makes my breath catch in my throat. Admiration. Not the fleeting attention Elijah tosses my way. This is different. Steadier.
“I want to show you what life can offer,” he says, each word deliberate. “Someone like you, with beauty like this… you shouldn’t waste it.”
My warning bells scream. I don’t even know this boy. Stranger, foreigner, Russian. All of it should stop me. But when he extends his hand, palm open, waiting—
I take it.
Not because I should. Not because it’s smart. But because something in me trusts him. And I don’t know why.
Chapter 22
Aurelia
Present
“If you lay a finger on my dog again, I will bite your dick off and shove it up your ass.”
They glance at each other before the skinnier one laughs—dark, cruel. “Look at that,” he snickers. “Our new toy’s a little psycho.”
Then he turns back to me, leaning in and tilting my chin up, lips curling into a nasty smile. “I can’t wait to have your mouth all over my dick, sweetheart.”
I stare back. No fear. No anger. Nothing. Just empty, cold defiance.
His smile falters, and he steps back, clearly not getting the reaction he wanted.
Before I can deliver another biting remark—telling them they’d have to kill me before touching me—a heavy bag slips over my head. The world spins, then black.
* * *
My senses come back slow, wading through thick fog.
The bag is still tight over my face, but light filters through the fabric—just enough to make out vague shapes.
My breathing is loud, ragged. My heart hammering against my ribs so hard it can almost escape.
I try to move, but my body feels heavy, chained in some way. Panic bubbles, but I choke it down. No point wasting energy on fear—not now.
My mind flashes to Hank. Is he safe? Is Elijah—where are they? The familiar fury that fuels me rises again, steady and hard as steel.
I’m not a girl who breaks easily. Not now. Not ever.
They drag me over uneven ground, and I feel the sting of loose gravel slicing into my calves. My feet scrape against rock slopes, maybe a path cut into a hill. The air smells of rot, cold iron, and damp earth. I still can’t see anything. The rough canvas bag scrapes against my face, each breath hot and suffocating inside the sack.
I thrash. Hard. Kicking my heels down. Throwing my weight left, then right. Every twist fueled by pure survival. This is it. My only shot.
Once they get me inside—inside whatever prison they’ve prepared—I’ll have nothing but my mind. And while it’s sharp, even I know there are limits to what a chained girl can do with just her thoughts.
A flash of movement—my knee connects with one of their groins. I hear the breath knocked out of him, a sick grunt of surprise and pain. Perfect.
