Her POV
I could hear my heartbeat pounding louder than the rustling leaves. I ran, tripping over roots and ripping my already torn scarf on the sharp branches. My lungs burned, and my legs felt like they would give out. They were close behind me. I could hear them laughing and shouting in a language I didn't understand.
I knew why they were chasing me: I had said no. That one word changed everything, or maybe it saved me.
Just when I thought I couldn't run any longer, I ran into a solid chest that knocked the breath out of me. He stood tall with broad shoulders, dressed in black from head to toe, and had a rifle slung across his back. His stance showed confidence and dominance. He didn't need words or threats to express himself. He stood still, like a wild animal ready to strike.
His face emerged from the shadows, marked by a sharp jawline and intense brows, with eyes that held a dangerous promise—capable of either destruction or salvation. I found myself uncertain of which it would be.
For a fleeting moment, panic surged through me as I thought I had stumbled into yet another peril. But then he stepped in front of me, an unyielding barrier between me and the threat, shielding me without a single inquiry. With a graceful yet commanding gesture, he raised one hand, and in an instant, the forest fell quiet. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
The men pursuing me halted abruptly. Their confidence faltered as they locked eyes with him, and I could see the shift take place. The cockiness that had fueled their chase vanished, replaced by raw fear that flickered in their once arrogant gazes.
Instead of engaging them, they turned and fled, retreating into the dense foliage like cockroaches scattering from sudden light. He didn't pursue them, nor did he utter a word; he merely turned slightly, his gaze following their retreat until the trees swallowed them. Then, slowly, he shifted his focus back to me, his eyes enigmatic—dark and quiet, reminiscent of a storm brewing in the distance, promising either chaos or calm.
His voice cut through the stillness—low, resonant, and disconcertingly steady. "You okay?"
I nodded slowly, struggling to catch my breath. My scarf hung half torn around my neck, and strands of hair clung to my damp forehead from the fright. My knees trembled beneath me, threatening to buckle at any moment.
"Ben iyiyim... Nerede olduğumu bilmiyorum," I murmured, the words slipping out in a trembling whisper. **(meaning, "I'm okay... I don't know where I am.")**
He met my gaze with an intensity that revealed no surprise. "Amerika'dasın," he replied, his voice steady and reassuring. **(meaning, "You're in America. Far from home." )**
I blinked.
Wait. What?
I stared at him, my heart still racing. His Turkish wasn't perfect, but it was fluent enough to jolt me into silence. Who was this man?
"How do you…?" I started, but then stopped myself.
His gaze dropped to my feet, then traveled up to my torn clothes, before finally returning to my face. "You shouldn't be here alone. Not in this forest." He turned slightly, as if expecting me to follow. "Come on."
"Excuse me?" I said, still frozen in place. "I don't even know you."
He gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "And you think I know you? You ran into me, remember?"
His arrogance made my spine stiffen. "I didn't exactly have a choice."
He stopped and turned back to face me, crossing his arms. "You had enough sense to say no, didn't you?" His tone wasn't mocking; it was more like a challenge. "Use that same sense now and don't stay here. It's not safe. Do you want them to come back?"
I bit my lip. He had a point, but I hated the way he said it—like he was always right and I was just a problem that had landed in his territory.
"I don't even know your name."
"Good," he muttered, already walking away. "Let's keep it that way."
My mouth fell open. "Excuse me?"
He glanced back over his shoulder, completely unfazed by my tone. "Do you always talk this much when someone saves your life?"
Heat rushed up my neck. I didn't feel grateful to him, especially not after his actions. Still, my options were limited. My phone was gone, I was bleeding, and my legs barely supported me.
With a sigh, I followed him and muttered in Turkish. He didn't seem to care.
We walked in silence, with only the crunch of leaves underfoot and the occasional bird call in the distance.
He finally slowed down near a clearing. I saw a cabin—more like a fortress—hidden among the trees. It was sleek and modern, looking out of place in the wilderness. It had security cameras, steel doors, black wooden walls, and tall windows. This was the kind of place you build to avoid being found.
He stopped at the steps and looked at me. "You need food, rest, and a clean bandage. That's all. Don't get comfortable," he said.
I frowned. "You really have an attitude problem, don't you?"
He smirked, the first sign of warmth I'd seen. "I live alone for a reason. Strangers remind me why."
I crossed my arms. "You're a terrible host."
He raised an eyebrow. "I'm not your host. I'm your last option."
Then he disappeared inside, leaving the door slightly open for me to decide: stay outside and possibly die, or step inside and face the most arrogant man in the forest.
I stood there, staring at the open door as if it could bite me. Everything in me screamed, Don't go in. Not because of danger, but because of him.
I didn't trust him. He hadn't done anything wrong, but I didn't understand him. He was unpredictable and silent when I needed clarity. I was too shaken to handle that kind of energy.
So I didn't move.
I crossed my arms tightly and settled onto the worn wooden step outside, pulling my knees up to my chest. The cool breeze swept through the air, refreshing against my skin, but it did little to ease the sting of dried sweat and the various small cuts and scrapes that marred my legs. I gazed out into the dense forest, half-expecting the men to emerge from the underbrush, yet I felt a deeper apprehension about what lurked behind the thick steel-lined walls of the cabin.
Ten long minutes dragged by, each second amplifying my anxiety.
Then, with a soft creak, the door swung open.
I tensed at the sound.
He stepped out, holding a small black box in his calloused hands. Without uttering a word, he approached and extended it toward me.
"Bandage yourself," he stated flatly, as if he were casually handing me a pen rather than a means to prevent infection.
I accepted the box slowly, feeling the brief, cold brush of his fingers against mine—his touch was rough, yet surprisingly steady.
"Thanks," I whispered, my voice barely above a murmur.
He didn't acknowledge my gratitude; instead, he leaned back against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that felt almost predatory. It was as though he was waiting to see just how badly I would fumble this task.
And, true to his expectations, I did.
I carefully opened the box and retrieved a disinfectant wipe, the crisp sound of the packaging breaking the tense silence around me. My hand trembled as I pressed the wipe against the gash on my calf. The sting shot through me, sharp and biting, causing me to wince involuntarily. But even more unsettling was his gaze, unyielding and intense, as if he could decipher every unspoken thought swirling in my mind.
I fumbled for the bandage, trying to roll it out with one hand while awkwardly holding the gauze in place with the other. The bandage slipped from my grasp, and my fingers tangled messily in their futile effort. A curse escaped my lips, low and frustrated.
I had never had to tend to an injury like this before—not once in my life. I wasn't weak; I was simply unused to depending on anyone. Still, the thought of asking for his help felt impossible. I couldn't do it.
His unwavering stare bore down on me, a heavy weight that only made my hands clumsier and more inept.
"Is this… a joke?" he said finally, his voice laced with that same dry arrogance he wore like impenetrable armor.
My head snapped up, surprise flashing in my eyes. "What?"
"You look like you're trying to wrap a sandwich, not treat a wound," he remarked, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Heat radiated up from my chest to my cheeks in response to his words. "I didn't ask for your opinion," I shot back, frustration creeping into my tone.
"No," he replied, unfazed, as he pushed off the doorframe and approached me with deliberate slowness. "But I'm giving it anyway."
He crouched down in front of me, invading my personal space, and I froze in place.
Too close.
Too quiet.
Too him.
In that moment, everything else faded away, and it felt as if the world had narrowed to just the two of us, suspended in a fragile balance of discomfort and unspoken tension.I wanted to shrink back but didn't. His hands reached for the bandage not forcefully, but firmly, like he wasn't asking. His fingers brushed my calf, and I stiffened like stone.
"You're bleeding," he said flatly, his gaze unwavering. "Stop acting like I'm the threat."
"I'm not," I whispered, but the tremor in my voice betrayed my bravado. I wasn't afraid of him hurting me; rather, I was anxious—terrified of being truly seen.
He didn't respond, his silence thickening the air between us. Instead, he reached for the gauze, methodically wrapping it around my injury with steely precision. Each movement was efficient, revealing a certain skill born of necessity rather than tenderness. It wasn't gentle, and it wasn't rough; it was a practical, almost clinical care that left little room for comfort.
"I could've done it myself," I mumbled, attempting to reclaim a semblance of control.
He looked up then, his eyes inscrutable, masking whatever thoughts were swirling inside him. "Could you?"
I opened my mouth to counter his doubt, but the bitter truth lodged itself in my throat, rendering me speechless.
He tied off the last bit of the bandage expertly and stood up, his presence looming over me. "Next time, don't lie to yourself just to look strong."
With that, he walked back into the cabin, leaving me alone and raw—wounded, bandaged, and feeling more exposed than I had in years.
I sat there for what felt like an eternity, grappling with the weight of my emotions. I couldn't tell which hurt more: my pride, bruised and battered, or the wound that throbbed beneath the fresh bandage.
As the sun sank lower behind the dense treetops, shadows stretched longer across the forest floor, swallowing the remnants of light. A chill seeped into the air, creeping through the fabric of my clothes and burrowing into my skin. Each unsettling crack of a branch in the distance set my nerves on edge.
Just then, I heard the cabin door creak open again.
He stepped outside, the heavy fabric of his thick utility jacket rustling softly in the evening breeze. A knife was strapped firmly to his side, its hilt glinting slightly in the fading light. The rifle was already slung across his broad shoulders, its dark finish seamlessly blending into the deepening shadows of dusk.
"I'm going hunting," he declared in a tone that brooked no argument.
I blinked, caught off guard by his abruptness. "Wait, what?"