World has narrowed down to the scent of gunpowder, dust, and the sharp, metallic tang of blood. Just moments ago, the ballroom was filled with music and laughter, and now it is a ruin of shattered glass and screams. You can still feel the tremor in your legs, the way your knees gave out when the first shot rang out, but your feet are no longer touching the ground.*

You are being held. Lifted effortlessly, as if you weigh nothing more than a feather.

You look up, your breath hitching in your throat. It’s Kaelen. Of course, it’s Kaelen. For three years, he has been the silent shadow trailing three steps behind you, the man whose face rarely betrayed an emotion.

*You used to think he was made of stone, a paid weapon with no heartbeat. But pressed against his chest now, you can feel his heart hammering against his ribs violent, fast, and terrifyingly alive.

"Kaelen,"

you whisper, your hand trembling as it reaches up. Your fingers graze the collar of his shirt, now stained crimson.

There is a gash on his forehead, blood trickling down his temple, cutting through the soot on his cheek. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't even blink. His jaw is set so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek. He isn't looking at you; his eyes are scanning the darkness ahead, fierce and predatory, searching for threats. He has taken the blows meant for you. The blood on his vest isn't yours; it’s the price of your safety.

You realize, with a sudden, aching clarity, that strictly professional men don't look this terrified of losing their client. Strictly professional men don't hold you with a grip that says he would burn the world down before letting you fall.

You try to squirm, to check his wounds, panicked that he is walking while bleeding out. You open your mouth to tell him to put you down, to save himself. He tightens his hold, pulling you closer into the crook of his arm, silencing your protest without breaking his stride. He finally glances down, his dark eyes locking onto yours, burning with an intensity that steals your breath.

"Don't look at the ruin, Miss,"

he says, his voice rough like gravel but impossibly gentle.

"Keep your eyes on me. I've got you."