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Amara Blake POV

The walls of my house were thin.

So thin I could hear the clock tick in the kitchen from my bed.

So thin the neighbors probably heard the way my mother smiled with her voice and slashed with her words.

So thin I could almost pretend I wasn’t trapped inside.

Almost.

I sat curled up on the farthest corner of my mattress, arms wrapped around my knees, textbook open but untouched in front of me.

Calculus formulas blurred on the page, swimming in and out of focus as the fight downstairs rose in pitch — another argument about the car payment, about the dirty dishes, about the way I “forgot” to call my father “sir” yesterday.

It didn’t matter what the spark was.

The fire always burned the same way.

My fingers traced the fraying edge of the quilt — a habit I didn’t remember picking up, but one I clung to when the shouting started.

It didn’t stop the memories from clawing at me.

Didn’t stop the bruises from blooming later, when words gave way to fists.

I wasn’t a child anymore.

I was nineteen.

I was supposed to be free.

The stupid, aching thing inside me — the part that still believed in fairy tales and birthday wishes — whispered, Maybe after college. Maybe when you have your own place. Maybe… someday.

Maybe was the cruelest word in the English language.

I jumped when the door slammed downstairs. Footsteps pounded toward the staircase. Heavy. Angry.

Coming for me.

I shut the textbook with a shaky hand, heart beating so hard it rattled my ribs.

I wasn’t supposed to lock my door — house rule — but my fingers twisted the lock anyway, guilt and terror knotting in my throat.

The handle rattled.

The door shook.

“Open it, you little brat,” my father roared.

My body moved without thinking. Out the window. Onto the narrow strip of roof just outside. Bare feet slipping on the cold shingles.

I didn’t stop to grab shoes. Or my bag. Or my phone.

I just ran.

I hit the ground hard, ankle twisting, but I didn’t let myself fall.

Pain could wait.

If I stopped, if I hesitated — I wouldn’t get another chance.

I sprinted through the dark, through the alleyways behind our street, not even caring where I was going.

Anywhere but here.

Anywhere but home.

My breath tore from my lungs, sharp and ragged. I kept running.

It was only when the city lights blurred and the concrete tilted under my feet that I realized:

I was bleeding.

Badly.

I must have scraped my arms, knees — maybe worse when I jumped.

The sight of blood turned my stomach.

The smell of it made my vision spin.

I stumbled around a corner, into a part of the city I’d only seen from a distance.

Shadows everywhere.

Neon signs buzzing like broken wasps.

Laughter — rough and dangerous — spilling from a club nearby.

I collapsed against the brick wall, fingers leaving red smears where they clutched the stone.

I wanted to hide.

I wanted to disappear.

And that’s when he found me.

Tall.

Sharp in the way that knives are sharp.

Dark suit. Darker eyes.

He didn’t look like a hero.

He didn’t even look surprised to find a broken girl bleeding on his doorstep.

He looked… tired. Like saving me would be one more burden he didn’t want.

But he came anyway.

He knelt in front of me — close enough that I could see the faint scar slicing through his eyebrow, the ghost of some old battle he hadn’t lost.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, rough like gravel but somehow… careful. “You with me?”

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to tell him to go away.

Instead, I whispered, “Please don’t hurt me.”

The world blurred into blackness.

Rafael Moretti POV 

She fell into my arms like a broken thing.

Too light.

Too small.

Too much blood.

I caught her on reflex, cursing under my breath as her body went limp against me.

Thin arms. Torn skin. Bones sharp under paper-thin skin.

Damn it.

I glanced toward the entrance of the club — Velvet — where the boys were still inside, drunk on easy money and harder liquor.

No one had seen her fall.

No one but me.

Which meant no witnesses.

No questions.

No excuses.

I could leave her here.

I should leave her here.

This wasn’t my business.

Girls who bled in alleyways usually had stories heavier than the bullets in my gun — and I had enough corpses on my conscience already.

But her voice — small, broken, please don’t hurt me — clung to my skin like smoke.

I didn’t hurt women. Not even in this business. Not even when they deserved it.

Still.

There was a difference between not hurting them and… saving them.

Saving things had never been my specialty.

Yet here I was, gathering her into my arms like some idiot knight from a bedtime story.

Her head lolled against my shoulder, a tremor running through her.

The blood smeared my sleeves.

I gritted my teeth against the instinct clawing at me — the one that said protect and fix and save, even when I knew better.

“Boss?”

Dominic’s voice, sharp and suspicious, cut through the alley as he stepped outside. His hand hovered near the gun tucked under his jacket.

I turned slightly, shielding her with my body without thinking.

“She’s nothing,” I snapped. “Some kid. Hurt.”

Dom eyed the blood. Eyed me.

Raised a brow.

“Want me to get rid of her?”

I stared at him for a long moment.

It would be cleaner that way.

Simpler.

But something — some old, stubborn thing I thought I’d buried years ago — tightened like a vice around my gut.

“No,” I said, my voice low. Final.

Dom shrugged, backing off with the casual indifference only a man born in violence could manage.

I shifted her weight against me, feeling the frantic flutter of her heart through her ribs.

Alive. Barely.

I had half a mind to dump her in the emergency room and walk away before the cops caught scent.

But hospitals asked questions.

Hospitals left trails.

And somehow, looking down at the raw terror etched into her sleeping face, I knew one thing for sure:

She wouldn’t survive the system.

Not like this.

Not if whatever she was running from caught up to her.

Just like that — fuck me — she was mine.

My problem.

My responsibility.

I cursed again under my breath, pulling my jacket tighter around her small frame to hide the blood.

She shivered but didn’t wake.

“Get the car,” I barked at Dom. “We’re taking her to the house.”

He didn’t argue.

He didn’t have to.

Everyone knew better than to question me when I sounded like that.

As I carried her toward the waiting car, a bitter taste fillied my mouth.

I wasn’t a good man.

Never pretended to be.

But tonight, for reasons I didn’t even understand yet, I wasn’t going to be the monster, either.

Not for her.

Maybe not ever again.