The rain came down in sheets, soaking through the thin fabric of her dress.
It turned her hair into a wet tangle against her face. It hit her like cold needles, pounding against her skin as she ran.
Keep moving. Don't stop. Don't think.
Her bare feet slapped against the slick pavement, her breaths coming in ragged gasps, each one searing her lungs.
The child in her arms whimpered, small fingers digging into her shoulder, clutching desperately at her soaked dress.
Her brother had promised to protect them both, but he was gone. He hadn't even been able to keep himself safe. How was she supposed to protect a child when she could barely defend herself?
Blood, her blood, seeped from the wound just beneath her collarbone, warm and sticky against the cold night air. She didn't dare slow down.
Not now. Not when the men were behind her.
The streets were a maze of shadows and slick concrete, every corner a potential trap.
Her shoulder burned, warm blood mixing with the icy rain, trailing down her arm in sluggish rivulets.
The bullet had only grazed her. She told herself that, over and over, but she was losing too much blood.
Her brother had been the leader. The one everyone turned to, the one who made the hard decisions. He always knew what to do. Always. But now, it was her. And she had no idea where to go.
They had told her to flee, to take the child, and disappear. They'd been wrong about so much. The negotiations with the others and the promises of safety were all lies.
Someone had betrayed them, and now she was running blindly with her niece towards a meeting point where her brother would hopefully be waiting, alive and well.
Lightning split the sky, flashing white against the towering buildings and clustered alleyways she was trying to navigate.
She risked a glance over her shoulder. Nothing but darkness. But that meant nothing—she knew better than to trust the silence.
She gritted her teeth and ran harder. The child trembled in her grip, her breath hitching with quiet sobs. "Shhh, baby," she whispered, her voice raw and frantic as she pressed a shaky kiss to the child's damp forehead. "Almost there. Just a little more."
Another lie. She had no idea where safety was anymore.
She didn't know if the safehouse had been compromised, and she didn't know whom she could trust, but she knew what she had seen.
Her brother chased by some men, leading them away from her and the child. Then the gunshots had begun.
Tears blurred her vision as she forced herself forward, limbs screaming for rest. But there was no stopping, no slowing down, not when they were still out there.
Her heartbeat thundered as she rounded a corner, feet skidding slightly on the slick pavement, and stopped.
A street lamp flickered ahead, the dim yellow light casting long shadows over the alleyway. And there, standing beneath it, was a man.
Dark suit. Black gloves. A gun was still smoking in his hand.
Behind him, sprawled in a growing pool of blood, lay her brother.
Her breath hitched.
The world tilted.
"No," she choked.
Her legs refused to move. She should run.
She had to. She stared at her brother's lifeless form, at the way his arm still reached out toward her and couldn't look away.
Toward the child.
A sob clawed up her throat as she covered her niece's face.
Too late. She was too late.
The man in the suit lifted his head. The light caught his face—sharp angles, cold blue eyes, mouth set in an unimpressed line. He wasn't wearing a mask and didn't bother to conceal his identity.
Why would he?
He probably hadn't been expecting witnesses. He probably didn't care if anyone saw.
His gaze locked onto hers. Time slowed.
A gust of wind sent rain spiralling through the space between them, but neither moved.
She could see his grip tighten on the gun.
A silent warning. She clutched the child closer, her mind racing. Think. Think!
Could she run? No. He'd shoot before she took two steps.
Could she fight? No.
But she could beg. No.
She clenched her jaw. Her brother was dead. The man before her had taken everything from her.
And yet, she could not move.
He took a step forward.
"Go," he said. The word was low. So low, she thought she had heard wrong.
She blinked. What?
The gun was still in his hand, smoke curling from the barrel, her brother's blood fresh on his gloves, but he was letting her leave?
He turned his head slightly, just enough to glance toward the rooftops. A warning.
Others were coming.
Her body jolted into action.
She ran and didn't look back.
She tore down the alley, blind with grief and rain and blood. The child in her arms was wailing now, but she barely heard her.
Thunder cracked overhead. Her lungs were on fire. Her feet slipped on the wet pavement.
Almost there. Just a little more and she'd get to the safe house—
And then
She slammed into something.
Her breath whooshed out of her lungs. The child slipped from her arms.
~*~*~*~
She woke up with a gasp.
Her chest heaved, lungs gasping for air that wasn't thick with rain and blood.
The dream clung to her, too vivid, too real. She could still feel the cold, the weight of the child in her arms, the burning ache of her wound.
Her fingers curled into the silk sheets beneath her. Sheets that were not hers. Her stomach twisted and her head felt like shit.
Slowly, stiffly, she turned her head and met
HIS eyes.
He was sitting beside her, bare-chested beneath the dim light of the penthouse.
His posture was lazy, a glass of dark liquor balanced between his fingers, but his eyes—those same cold, blue eyes—watched her like a predator waiting for his prey to make a move.
"Sleep well, milaya?" Sweet One