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. She didn’t trust me—hell, I wouldn’t have either. I was just the guy tasked with getting her home. Quiet. Armed. Not exactly a comforting presence.

Still, she followed. Didn’t complain once, even when her pack dug into her shoulders or the streets grew darker and more dangerous. She kept pace, eyes sharp, jaw tight. Braver than she knew.

“We’ll reach the safe house by nightfall,” I’d told her that morning.

I was wrong.

The first shot echoed off the brick walls like thunder.

I barely had time to shove her behind a dumpster. Two shots rang out in return. One breath. Pain exploded in my side. Hot, blinding.

I went down hard onto the cracked concrete.

She was at my side, panic in her voice. I could barely make out her words.

“Ian?”

I pushed the pistol into her hands. She was trembling.

“If he comes closer—,” I said. My mouth tasted like metal.

“I—I can’t—”

“You can.”

Then everything went dark.

---

I came to somewhere in the alley. She was dragging me—clumsily, but determined. I gave her directions. Don’t know how much she heard, but she got us there.

The safe house smelled stale and cramped, the kind of place you find tucked between old warehouses. She got me onto a threadbare cot, patched me up as best she could. I passed out again.

When I woke, the room was quiet.

I saw her standing in the doorway, stiff like her bones didn’t quite fit inside her skin. She looked at me, but didn’t really see me.

“I’ll go wash up,” she said. Barely above a whisper.

She didn’t come back.

I gave it ten minutes. Then I forced myself up. Every movement felt like fire in my ribs, but something told me she was hurting worse.

I found her in the cramped bathroom.

The door was cracked open, water running in bursts.

She was crouched on the grimy tile floor, sleeves pushed up, scrubbing her hands like she was trying to erase the stains from her skin. The water had turned pink. Her fingers were raw. She didn’t notice me.

Her shoulders shook. Silent crying.

I stepped in slowly.

“Hey,” I said, soft. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

She jerked, then froze. Still wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“I can’t get it off,” she whispered, voice cracked. “I can’t—It’s—”

I knelt beside her, ignoring the sharp tug in my side, and gently covered her hands with mine, pulling them out of the water.

“I know,” I said.

She finally looked at me.

“I didn’t want to…”

“You saved my life.”

Her eyes filled again, like that made it worse somehow.

“But I didn’t want to take one.”

I didn’t argue. There’s no easy fix for that kind of pain.

So I held her hands, wet and shaking in mine, and stayed with her.

She didn’t have to carry it alone.

Not anymore.