Chapter 3: The Ambush

Arden POV

"Don't move," I whispered, dropping to my knees on the wet pavement beside him.

His eyes snapped open, gold and sharp even in the dark, and I recognized him instantly as the stranger from the platform, the one everyone in that ballroom had been trying to reach all night. His hand shot out and locked around my wrist before I could pull back, his grip iron-tight despite the blood soaking through his shirt.

"Who sent you?" he growled, blood trickling from his lip.

"Nobody sent me." I winced against his grip but didn't pull away. "I saw you fall. You're bleeding out."

His eyes searched for my face and missed it, sliding just to the left of where I actually knelt, and something about that small failure seemed to frighten him more than the wound itself. "I can't... see you clearly. The poison's blurring everything."

"Then stop trying." I pressed my jacket hard against his ribs, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Lie still and let me work."

He arched off the ground with a groan, teeth clenched, eyes opening and closing on nothing, and for a moment I thought I might lose him right there against the crates. "Who are you?"

"A stranger who knows how to heal," I said, and laid my bare hands over the wound.

Heat built under my palms, low and buzzing, and then light spilled out from my fingers and lit up the brick wall beside us. Whatever had been clouding my own head Celeste's drug, the pounding behind my eyes burned away in the same instant, leaving me sharper than I'd felt all night, like the act of healing him was healing me too.

"What are you doing?" His voice had gone tight, his eyes still wide and unfocused.

"Closing the wound, keep breathing."

"I'm trying," he said, frustration cracking through the strain in his voice.

Underneath my hands, the torn muscle knit itself back together, the gash sealing until only a thin pink line remained. His breathing steadied by degrees, color flooding back into a face that had been grey seconds before, and I felt the exact moment the danger passed.

He didn't move right away. He lay there testing it, flexing the fingers of the hand still wrapped around my wrist, drawing one slow breath and then another as if checking that his own body would still do what he asked of it.

"You're not dying anymore," I said quietly. "You're whole."

"I noticed." A rough huff of something that wasn't quite a laugh escaped him, and only then did he try to sit up, bracing himself against the crates with a hand that still trembled slightly from what he'd just survived.

His other hand came up and found my cheek, tracing along my jaw like he was trying to memorize me by touch since his eyes couldn't do the job. "Your face. I still can't see it."

"Does it matter?"

"It matters." His thumb brushed my lower lip, and I felt the question in it before he asked it out loud. "Who are you, really?"

"Someone who knows what it's like to be left alone in the dark," I said, and I heard my own voice catch on it.

For a second neither of us spoke. The alley was quiet except for the drip of water somewhere off in the dark and the distant, muffled thump of music still going in a world I'd already left behind.

His hand stayed on my face, warm despite everything, and I let myself lean into it just slightly before I caught what I was doing and pulled back an inch.

"What is it?"

"Nothing." A lie, because for half a second the memory of another man's hand closing around my arm, of his breath against my ear promising the river, had risen up out of nowhere and made my whole body go rigid.

I pushed it down, hard, the way I'd been pushing things down my whole life. "Someone tried to hurt me tonight. Before I found you."

His jaw tightened, gold eyes flaring even though they still couldn't quite land on mine. "Are you hurt?"

"No. I fought him off." I said. "I'm not used to anyone asking."

"Then I'm asking." His hand didn't move from my face, but he went still, waiting, and I understood he meant it as a kind of permission that whatever happened next would happen because I let it, not because he took it.

I thought about walking away right then. Some small, smarter part of me said to get up, disappear into the dark the same way I'd come, before this stranger became something I couldn't afford to want. I didn't listen to that part either.

"Stay still," I said instead, and closed the last part of the distance myself.

He found my mouth like he'd been waiting for permission, gentle in a way that startled me more than force would have. Minutes ago a man had tried to tear this same dress off me in an alley.

But this was different; he wasn't taking anything. He was asking, even blind, even bruised, like I was something worth being careful with, and something in my chest that had been clenched tight for years finally loosened.

"Tell me what you want," he murmured against my mouth.

"You," I said, and meant it more than I'd meant anything in a long time. "I want you."

His hands found the straps of my dress and paused there, waiting, until I whispered a quiet "yes" and felt him ease them down.

Cool air hit my bare skin as the bodice of the cheap black dress loosened, and I felt the fabric gap away from my chest, exposing my breasts to the cold night air and the warmth of his gaze even though he still couldn't see me.

His mouth found my throat, warm and unhurried, tracing a path down to the hollow where my pulse hammered. His tongue swept across my skin as I shivered against him.

"I can't see you," he said again, voice rougher now, "but I can feel you."

"Then feel me." I pressed his palm flat against my racing heart, and I felt him freeze under my hand, like he was memorizing the rhythm of it.

He guided me back against the brick slowly, giving me every chance to stop him. The rough surface scraped against my bare shoulders as he pressed me into it, and his hands mapped the curve of my waist before sliding up to cup my bare breasts, his palms warm against my chilled skin.

His thumbs found my nipples, circling slowly until they hardened into tight peaks against his touch as I gasped.

"Beautiful," he murmured, though he couldn't see me.

His mouth left my throat and found my breast, hot and wet, closing over one nipple while his hand worked the other. I arched into him, my fingers threading into his hair, a low moan escaping my lips.

He switched to the other side, teeth grazing just enough to send a jolt of pleasure straight between my legs. I could feel myself growing wet, the ache building with every pull of his mouth.

But then he pulled back, and before I could register the loss of his mouth on my skin, he was lowering himself, sinking to his knees on the wet pavement in front of me. His hands gripped my hips, and I felt his breath hot against my inner thigh through the torn fabric of my dress.

"What are you?" I started, but the words died in my throat as his mouth found the bare skin of my thigh, kissing a path upward.

"I want to taste you," he said, his voice rough and low. "Let me taste you."

My heart slammed against my ribs. No one had ever—I'd never even imagined—but he was already pushing the ruined fabric of my dress up past my hips, baring me completely to the cold air and the heat of his mouth.

"Tell me yes," he demanded, his fingers gripping my thighs, spreading them wider.

"Yes," I breathed, my hands finding the rough brick behind me for support. "Yes."

His mouth found me then—hot, wet, and hungry. His tongue swept through my folds, tasting me, and I cried out, my hips bucking against his face. He groaned against me, the vibration of it sending shockwaves through my body, and I felt his hands squeeze my thighs harder, holding me steady.

"So sweet," he murmured against my skin, and then his tongue found my clit, circling it slowly, deliberately.

I gasped, my head falling back against the brick, my fingers tangling in his hair. He worked me with his tongue, alternating between soft, teasing licks and firm, insistent pressure that made my knees buckle.

His hands slid up from my thighs, gripping my bare hips, and then one hand released me and found my breast, squeezing it roughly, his thumb flicking my nipple.

The sensation was overwhelming—his mouth on me, his hand on my breast, the cold night air on my bare skin, the rough brick scraping against my shoulders. I was drowning in it, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Please," I begged, not even sure what I was asking for.

He didn't stop. His tongue pushed inside me, tasting deeper, and his hand squeezed my breast harder, pinching my nipple until I cried out. The pressure built low in my belly, coiling tighter and tighter, and I felt myself trembling on the edge.

"Look at me," he demanded, and I forced my eyes open, looking down at him through the haze of pleasure. He couldn't see me, but I could see him—his head between my thighs, his eyes still unfocused, the power of him on his knees for me.

"Come for me," he commanded against my skin, and that was all it took.

I shattered with a cry, my hips grinding against his face as the orgasm ripped through me, wave after wave of pleasure that left me shaking. He worked me through it, his tongue gentling as I came down, until I was gasping and trembling.

He kissed his way back up my body, his lips leaving a trail of heat across my stomach, between my breasts, up my throat.

"So beautiful," he murmured, his thumb brushing my lower lip. "I need to be inside you."

His hand found the back of my thigh, lifting my leg around his waist, and I felt him fumbling with his belt, the metallic clink of the buckle echoing off the brick walls. He freed himself, and I wrapped both legs around his waist, my whole body humming with a nervousness that had nothing to do with fear.

"Ready?" he asked, and waited for my answer like it actually mattered.

"Yes."

He pushed into me slowly, inch by burning inch, and I felt every moment of it—the pressure, the stretch, the overwhelming fullness as he buried himself to the hilt. I cried out, my nails raking down his back, tears pricking at my eyes. But he held still, waiting for me to adjust, his forehead pressed against mine.

"Breathe," he whispered.

I did. And when the ache softened into something closer to relief, I whispered. “Continue”

He pulled back and thrust in again, deeper this time, and I felt the scrape of the brick wall against my shoulder blades. His pace built slowly at first, controlled, letting me feel every inch of him inside me.

But as the rhythm intensified, control started slipping from both of us, his hips driving harder, faster, his breath coming in ragged gasps against my throat.

"Look at me," he commanded, and I did—even though he couldn't see me, I looked straight into those unfocused eyes.

His thumb found my clit, pressing in tight circles, and the pressure built too fast to fight. I shattered around him with a cry I couldn't hold back, my whole body clenching and pulsing as the orgasm ripped through me.

He followed a moment later, his hips slamming into mine one final time, spilling deep inside me with a low, broken groan.

We stayed like that, locked together against the wall, hearts slamming in the same frantic rhythm, until the adrenaline started draining out of both of us and left something quieter behind.

"Stay," he murmured.

"I will." I meant it in that moment, more than I'd ever meant a promise to anyone.

We sank down together onto the cold pavement, his head finding my shoulder, and for a while neither of us said anything at all.

I traced the line where the wound had been, now nothing but smooth, unbroken skin, and let myself imagine just for a few minutes what it might feel like to belong to someone who chose to see you, even blind.

Near dawn, the first gray light crept over Black Hollow, and reality started creeping back in with it.

I traced his peaceful face once more, memorizing the sharp jaw, the healed cut on his ribs, a stranger's face, and yet it already felt like something I'd carry with me long after tonight ended.

Then voices cut through the quiet, sharp and urgent, closer than I expected.

"Search the block! He has to be safe!"

My blood went cold. Whoever he was, people were looking for him.

I eased out from under his arm as gently as I could, settling his head onto my folded jacket instead of the bare pavement. He stirred but didn't wake.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, though I didn't know what I was apologizing for leaving, or wanting so badly to stay.

I yanked the torn dress up over my shoulders and slipped into the mouth of the alley just as the first flashlight beam swept the far wall.