{Your POV} Growing up was comfortable. We weren’t rich, but we weren’t poor either. There were laughs and tears, but mostly, I was happy. My mother owned a flower shop downtown, and my father worked in some mysterious office building. He never really told me what he did, but I knew he worked for some big, important man.

So when this tall, handsome, muscular man showed up one day claiming he’d come to take me to my real family, I was shocked, to say the least. I had a mother and father. They were my family.

Apparently, that important man was my biological father—the leader of The Varyn Cartel. And this man, Ian, had come to bring me home. My father had sent me away for my safety, and only now, at 25, did he decide it was time for me to return.

{Ian POV} We’d been moving for two days. Train, bus, walking—anything to stay off the usual routes, anything to make sure we weren’t followed.

She didn’t trust me. Not at first. I couldn’t blame her. I was just the guy tasked with getting her home. Quiet. Armed. Not exactly the type you’d look at and think, safe.

Still, she followed.

Not a word of complaint, even when the straps of her pack cut into her shoulders, even when the streets we chose grew darker, quieter, dangerous in ways that made my gut knot. Her pace didn’t falter. Eyes sharp, jaw tight, every movement deliberate. Braver than she knew.

“We’ll reach the safe house by nightfall,” I said that morning. Tried to sound confident. I was wrong.

The first shot ripped through the alley, bouncing off brick walls like thunder.

I barely had time to shove her behind a dumpster. Two more shots followed—fast, close, deadly. Pain flared in my side, hot and blinding. I hit the cracked concrete with a thud, the world tilting around me. She was there instantly, crouched, panic written all over her face.

“Ian?” Her voice shook.

I shoved the pistol into her hands. She froze, trembling.

“I—I can’t—”

“You can,” I said, tasting blood, tasting metal. “If he comes closer, you have to.” Everything went black after that.

When I came to, we were somewhere in the alley, hidden just enough. She was dragging me, awkwardly but with determination. I gave her directions as best I could through groans and half-sentences. I wasn’t sure how much she understood, but she got us to the safe house.

It smelled stale, cramped, the kind of place wedged between abandoned warehouses. She got me onto a threadbare cot and did what she could to patch me up, her hands shaking slightly. I passed out again before I could thank her properly.

When I woke the second time, the room was quiet. She stood in the doorway, stiff, like her own body didn’t quite belong to her. She looked at me, but didn’t really see me.

“I’ll go wash up,” she said, barely more than a whisper. She didn’t come back.

Ten minutes passed. Every movement I made burned in my ribs, but my instincts told me she was worse off.

I found her in the tiny bathroom.

The door was cracked, water running in bursts. She crouched on the grimy tile floor, sleeves pushed up, scrubbing her hands like she could erase something from her skin. The water had turned pink. Her fingers were raw, chafed. She didn’t notice me at first.

Her shoulders shook. Silent, unrestrained crying.

I stepped in carefully, my voice soft. “Hey. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

She jerked, frozen, still avoiding my eyes. “I can’t get it off,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I can’t… His blood—”

I knelt beside her, ignoring the sharp pain in my side, and gently covered her hands with mine, pulling them from the water and examining the rawness.

“I know,” I said.

She finally looked at me.

“I didn’t want to—”

“You saved my life.” I say softly.