CHAPTER 2

Nancy's POV

The man holding me made a horrible, wet choking sound.

His grip vanished.

I stumbled forward, catching myself against the cold concrete wall. My palms scraped it, skin burning, but I didn’t feel the pain right away. Everything was too loud. Too fast. My ears rang as I turned around.

He was on the ground.

His body lay twisted in a way bodies weren’t meant to bend. His neck was turned at a sharp angle, his eyes wide and empty. Dead. Just like that.

A man stood over him.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Solid. He moved like water, smooth and flowing, but every movement was violent. Deadly. Terrifying.

And somehow… beautiful.

The second man rushed him, screaming, knife raised high.

The stranger didn’t step back.

He caught the man’s wrist mid-air. Just caught it. Like it was nothing. Then he twisted.

I heard bones crack.

The sound made my stomach flip.

The man screamed, a raw, broken sound that cut through the garage. The stranger already had a knife in his other hand—I didn’t even see where it came from—and he drove it up under the man’s ribs.

Hard.

The scream cut off instantly.

The body slid to the ground.

The third man—the tall one with the knife—was backing away now. Fear finally in his voice. His knife slipped from his fingers and clattered against the floor.

“Who the fuck—”

He didn’t finish.

The stranger crossed the space between them in two steps. That was all it took. Two steps. A flash of metal.

The tall man dropped to his knees, hands flying to his throat. Blood poured through his fingers, thick and dark, splashing onto the concrete.

Then he fell forward.

Still.

Silence.

It was over.

Less than thirty seconds.

Three men dead or dying.

And I was still standing.

Still breathing.

Still alive.

The stranger turned and looked at me.

Really looked at me.

He was tall. Taller than anyone I knew. Maybe six foot three. Maybe more. His dark hair was messy, like he kept running his hands through it without thinking. His face looked hard, carved, sharp in all the right and wrong places. Strong jaw. High cheekbones. A small scar above his left eyebrow, faint but noticeable if you looked close.

He wasn’t handsome in a safe way.

He was handsome in a dangerous way.

The kind that makes your chest tighten. The kind you shouldn’t stare at but can’t stop yourself from staring at anyway.

But it was his eyes that froze me.

They were gray.

No. Silver.

Like metal. Like a blade. Cold and sharp and lifeless.

There was nothing in them. No anger. No relief. No excitement. No guilt.

Nothing.

He looked at me like I was furniture. Like I was a thing in the room he needed to notice and then forget.

He was covered in blood.

It splashed his face, streaked his neck, soaked into his black shirt. Some of it still looked wet, shining under the harsh garage lights. Drops fell to the floor with soft taps.

He didn’t react.

Didn’t wipe it away.

Didn’t look down at the bodies.

Didn’t look at his hands.

He just stood there. Calm. Still. Like he hadn’t just ended three lives with terrifying ease.

We stared at each other.

The logical part of my brain was screaming.

Run.

This man is dangerous.

He just killed three people.

He could kill you too.

I should have been shaking harder. Screaming. Running toward the stairs, the exit, anywhere away from him.

But my feet wouldn’t move.

My body wouldn’t listen.

He was the most dangerous thing I had ever seen. Like a predator. Like violence given a human body. Like death walking around wearing skin.

And somehow—somehow—he was also the most beautiful.

It didn’t make sense. It scared me that it didn’t make sense.

My hands trembled at my sides. My heart slammed against my ribs. My throat still burned where the knife had touched me. I could still hear the tall man’s voice in my head, telling me how he was going to cut me into pieces.

But this stranger had stopped it.

He had saved me.

Hadn’t he?

“Who—” My voice came out broken. Barely there.

I swallowed and tried again. “Who are you?”

He didn’t answer.

Just kept staring.

Those silver eyes scanned my face slowly. Like he was studying me. Like he was committing me to memory. Like he was deciding something.

The silence stretched.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Fifteen.

My chest hurt from breathing too fast.

Then, before I could say another word, before I could even think—

He walked toward me in quick, sure steps.

Not rushed. Not hesitant.

Certain.

Each footstep echoed in the quiet parking garage, sharp and loud, like the sound was meant to warn me. His boots hit the concrete with purpose, like he already knew exactly what he was going to do.

I stumbled backward, my heel catching on something. My heart slammed against my ribs.

“Wait—”

I didn’t even finish the word.

He was already there.

One second there was space between us. The next, there wasn’t.

His hands grabbed me. One clamped around my arm, the other locked onto my waist. His grip was hard. Solid. Unbreakable. I felt the strength in his fingers, the roughness of his palms, the kind of hands that were used to violence.

“What are you—”

Something dropped over my head.

Dark. Rough fabric scraped against my face.

A bag.

Everything went black.

Panic exploded inside me.

I couldn’t see. Couldn’t tell where I was anymore. The fabric pressed against my mouth and nose, making it hard to breathe. The air inside smelled old and dusty, like oil and dirt and sweat.

I sucked in a breath and felt it catch in my chest.

Then the ground disappeared.

My feet lifted off the floor and the world tilted violently. My stomach lurched as I was thrown over his shoulder, upside down, my body bouncing hard against his back.

Like I weighed nothing.

Like I wasn’t a person.

“Put me down!” I screamed. The sound came out muffled and strange inside the bag. “Put me down right now!”

Nothing.

No answer. No reaction.

Just his footsteps starting again, steady and calm, like carrying a screaming woman over his shoulder was the most normal thing in the world.

I screamed again. Louder.

“Help! Someone help me! Please!”

My own voice sounded too loud in my ears, echoing inside the bag. My throat burned. Tears streamed down my face, soaking into the fabric.

No one came.

Of course no one came.

The garage was empty. Just dead bodies. And him.

Oh God.

He was kidnapping me.

The thought hit me so hard it almost made me dizzy. He’d killed those men, and now he was taking me somewhere else. Somewhere worse. Somewhere private.

He was going to kill me too.

Maybe not right away.

I slammed my fists into his back, hitting him as hard as I could. I put everything into it—fear, anger, desperation.

It was like hitting a wall.

He didn’t grunt. Didn’t stumble. Didn’t even slow down.

I might as well have been punching concrete.

I kicked my legs wildly, trying to make it harder for him, trying to throw him off balance. My body thrashed, useless and frantic.

His free arm came up.

Wrapped around my legs.

Locked tight.

Pinned them together like they were nothing.

I couldn’t move anymore.

I couldn’t fight.

I was completely trapped.

My heart was pounding so hard it hurt. I could feel it in my chest, in my throat, in my ears. Every beat was loud and painful.

This was it.

This was how I died.

Not in some dramatic shootout. Not in a planned attack like my father always warned me about.

But here.

In a parking garage.

Killed by a stranger whose name I didn’t even know.

“Please,” I heard myself say. My voice cracked, small and broken. “Please don’t hurt me.”

Nothing.

Just footsteps.

His breathing—slow, even, calm.

“I’ll give you money,” I said quickly, the words tumbling over each other. “My father has money. A lot of it. Whatever you want. Please, just don’t—”

My voice broke completely.

“Please,” I whispered again. “I don’t want to die. Please.”

Still no answer.

I was crying openly now. Sobbing. I couldn’t stop it. All the fear I’d been holding back for years spilled out at once.

I was going to die.

And there was nothing I could do.

Then—

A sound cut through everything.

The screech of tires.

Sharp. Loud. Sudden.

A car stopping fast. Rubber burning against concrete.