Chapter 2

It had been a draining day for Erin. She had walked from street to street, selling bouquets and single stems without rest. February was always her busiest month—the season of giving flowers to loved ones—second only to All Souls’ Day. She needed enough sales to hand her uncle’s family money tonight; if she failed, they would hurt her again the way they always did.

She also needed to keep a hidden portion for herself. She knew that as long as they could not seize her inheritance, they might one day decide to end her life. She had to save quietly so that when she finally left their house, she would have something to survive on.

She would not touch the savings in her bank; that money was reserved for the operation on her eyes. She never reached a cornea donor because her uncle kept blocking every attempt. “I guess that’s the last customer,” Erin murmured, realizing she was alone in the shop now.

She put tools away and swept the floor. After a short rest, she took her walking stick and her sling bag. She never feared losing it; nothing valuable lay inside. She switched off the light. As she moved toward the door, the bell chimed—and then the door slammed open so hard the wood nearly cracked. Erin gasped, startled to her bones.

She stumbled backward and struck a flowerpot; it shattered across the floor. A presence stood in front of her—near, heavy, silent. Frozen, she could not move. She drew breath to scream, and a rough hand covered her mouth.

The man muffled her cry; he wanted no police or curious neighbors while he bled. “D-Don’t shout, or I’ll kill you,” he rasped. Though Erin could not see him or the state he was in, the force of his presence told her he was dangerous, even while his voice sounded weak.

“W-What do you want? Please, I don’t have any money here,” she stammered, fear tightening her chest. She wanted to live—no matter her condition—because that was her parents’ last and fiercest hope for her.

“Damn it, I don’t want your money,” the man muttered, lowering his hand from her mouth. He caught the stillness of her eyes—unblinking, untracking. Even without seeing her face clearly, he recognized blindness. Her natural scent reached him—clean, warm, unexpectedly sweet—and for a fleeting, shameful second he almost groaned.

He had never scented anything so gentle. The women he had taken to his bed always smelled of perfume; this girl smelled simply of herself. He shoved the thought away. This was not the time, and he did not need distraction.

He called his men and reported his location. Yet he could not remain outside; the police might already be hunting him. “T-Then what do you need?” Erin asked, trembling. She was blind; she could not see the stranger before her, only the black aura of danger rolling from him.

Her other senses had grown sharp, and they screamed at her to be careful. “I—I need to—” he began, and then his body gave out. He collapsed against her, his weight driving them to the floor together.

Erin gasped. Of all places, why her flower shop? There were other buildings on this block, empty and dark. His fall knocked over displays; she bit her lip at the sound of stems snapping and glass skittering. Those damages would earn her more than slaps later—her aunt would join her uncle, she knew it.

This man had just made everything worse. “S-Sir, please… I can’t do anything for you. You see, I’m blind, and I—I can’t help,” she pleaded, pushing at his shoulder. She felt along the floor for her stick, but it had rolled somewhere out of reach.

He answered with a thin, ragged groan. Erin frowned. She could barely keep herself safe; how could she manage him? Yet the sound he made spoke of pain, not threat, and after a moment it faded into silence as if he had blacked out again.

“P-Please, sir, I don’t know what to do with you. I can’t see anything, so if you want to hurt me, please spare me,” she whispered. Another groan answered her, deeper, straining. It was the sound of someone fighting pain.

Understanding clicked into place. He was injured and needed help. She was not the kind of person who abandoned the wounded, not when breathing proof of their suffering warmed the air inches from her face. She pushed herself up, searched for her stick, and found it nudged against a large pot near the door. She drew a steadying breath and returned to him, nervous and shy of the intimacy necessity demanded.

“H-Hey, sir, I want to help you. Please stay still,” she said. He did not answer. She knelt and checked his body by touch, carefully avoiding the places she had no right to touch. Her fingers found something slick; the iron smell told her exactly what it was—blood.

She swallowed. Trouble. Serious trouble. But she knew first aid. She located the medical kit, came back, and traced the wound with careful fingers. The tear felt shallow, just a graze.

A gunshot graze. Gooseflesh raced down her arms. If she had not lost her sight, she would have studied medicine; that had been her dream. She knew the tools and steps of first aid by memory, learned from textbooks she had devoured instead of fairy tales.

Both her parents had been doctors. They had left a hospital in her name, though a trusted guardian still managed it for her. She pressed the wound, and his hand slapped hers away on reflex.

“F-Fuck! Don’t touch it!” He growled weakly. Erin bit her lip hard. Tears pricked—not from his reaction, but from fear of what he might do if she angered him.

“S-Sir, I’m trying to help, I promise. I won’t hurt you. I’ll just give first aid,” she said softly. He fought the urge to open his eyes and see the owner of that voice, honeyed and steady despite the tremor. He could not be involved, not when his mission consumed him. "Focus," he told himself.

Erin laid out gauze, pads, antiseptic, and tape and went to work. Thankfully there was no bullet to extract from his shoulder. Blood still seeped, and his face felt cold; he needed a transfusion, and she had no way to provide one. She packed the wound and wrapped it tight to stanch the bleeding.

She sensed he was running from someone. It did not matter. Good or bad, if a person needed help and she could give it, she would. “T-There, it’s done,” she whispered, voice shaking. She scooted away a little from the heat of his body.

Exhaustion descended quickly. She did not notice sleep catching her. The kit rested by her side; her walking stick lay tucked against her chest. The man’s breathing evened out. Her own did too. The shop went still except for their tired breaths.

Morning light pressed at the windows before Erin stirred. Her hand reached out, finding only empty floor where his body had been. He was gone. She stretched—and froze as memory returned. She had not gone home last night.

“Goodness, I’m dead,” she muttered. Helping another had doomed her again. Her uncle would punish her, with her aunt eager to help. She gathered her things, locked the shop, and began the long walk home.

At the front gate, raised voices spilled from the house—her uncle and aunt fighting.

“Use her as payment! You know we’re broke—she has the money! I don’t want to die! Erin, Erin will be our payment!”

Fear iced her spine. This was the nightmare she had always carried. Now it stood in daylight. She turned away, ready to flee before they saw her—

A new voice sliced the air, stopping her cold, freezing every muscle.

“Mom! Dad! The blind girl—she’s escaping!”