In that moment, Dylan's forehead met mine, time itself seemed suspended while it hung before us. Unvoiced thoughts and emotions fell between us, which neither of us could even begin to express. I didn't know if this was a quiet apology for what had happened, perhaps guilt, or something much more serious beyond that. More authentic? Dylan was not the sort to shout his emotions at all. He cradled me to make me reassess everything I thought I knew about him, even with tall walls and emotions well guarded.
This, however, dug something out from deep within me—raw and buried too deep to err. I had not realized how much starved I had been for a simple human touch. My life had been a series of empty exchanges, gazes distant, words hollow. Could be made habitual being alone, to lug the burden of pain in silence that I hadn't recognized how heavy it had grown until now.
Whereas, this— was different. He encircled me in strong, warm, and steady arms that seemed to be safeguarding little pieces of me of which I was not even aware that they were cracking. This was more than just an embrace—it was like a lifeline, an unspoken acknowledgment of what neither of us wanted to say. At that moment, it didn't matter to me whether Dylan needed comfort for himself or was giving it to me. What mattered is that he made me feel understood—as if the cracks in my armor were something to hold onto rather than something to hide.
The first time since forever, I gave in. I let the heat from his embrace wash over me like a tide while I closed my eyes and relaxed. It took my pains, loneliness, and ghosts from doing a complete wash, although it did pause them for a while. I found that comfort in his arms that was beyond words and reason, something I imagined long forgotten. I clung to it with all I had, as if my life depended upon it, even though not having the slightest idea of what that meant or how long it would last.
Then his phone shrilled to rend the tenuous silence between us and our little moment. With Dylan's warmth once again all around him, he withdrew enough to reach into his pocket and retrieve the gadget. His frown deepened as he stared at the television, his expression changing.
His body seemed to stiffen as he answered and an anxious look played across his features. As if someone had just flicked a switch on him, something sharper, more focused took over from his normally guarded demeanor as that voice came through on the other end. His eyes started scanning the room for something invisible while his jaw tensed. More than mere confusion, it was the expression of a person preparing for impact, someone suddenly plunged into a fight-or-flight moment.
He muttered, pulling away while looking down at me and then looking away to hang up the phone.
'' And what is it ?'' I asked a little hesitant but a look in those eyes kind of hurt at him but his stern, stoic change made mix signals.
Dylan was speaking, his voice low and sure, when the first gunshot broke the silence screaming. The boom was strong, piercing, and frightfully near. My breath caught in my body, frozen in place, as the next shot came; the whistle of the bullet flew past my ear too near for comfort.
"Get down!" Dylan's voice was a snarl and he grabbed me, his arm squeezing around me like a vice. My eyes could barely register what was happening, because within a breath he yanked me down and shoved me behind a cluster of ancient gravestones. My back crashed into the cold, jagged stone with my heart hammering against my ribcage, noisily almost as loud as the gunfire.
"Stay here," he hissed coldly and commandingly, his eyes looking all over the dark cemetery. His moves were quick and calculated. He reached into his pocket with one sharp, fluid movement and pulled out a gun. The weapon glinted in the faint argent light as the dark barrel promised ominously.
The firing stopped, leaving a deafening silence in its wake, broken only by the sound of heavy boots crunching against gravel. My breath caught in my throat as three figures emerged from the shadows, their steps slow and deliberate. Dylan's posture shifted, his body a coiled spring, every muscle taut and ready.
Dylan moved before they could finish speaking. The harsh snap of his gun pierced the silence, and one of the guys fell instantaneously, a gurgled cry from his lips before he touched the ground. Another gun rang out, and the second man collapsed, holding his chest as blood splattered across his shirt like a horrible flower.
Across the alley, and crouching just inside the door, was the third man: much younger with a glint of steal catching the light as he swung a knife. Dylan dodged, quick and vicious, and the knife sliced harmless air. Dylan's gun clattered to the ground as he launched himself into the man, fists flying with brutal precision.
Dylan's punches rang through the silence, every sickening thud punctuated with the sound of impact. The man made furious but futile attempts at landing a blow. However, Dylan was unrelenting. He slammed the man against a gravestone, shaking the primitive stone and constricting an arm around his throat.
"Who sent you?" Dylan hissed, his voice low and lethal, face inches from the man's as he tightened his hold even more when the latter squirmed, his bulging eyes and fast, terrified gasps telling everything.
"D-Dustin..." the man stammered out between chokes, his voice barely a whisper, "Dustin...will get you..."
That one name seemed to ignite something in him, twisting the muscles of his face into an almost unrecognizable mask. Without hesitation, he tightened his grip, knuckles whitening, then in one fluid motion, he threw the man off just long enough to bring up his gun.
The flare briefly illuminated Dylan's icy anger, and then the shot thundered through the night. The blood of the man pooled darkly in moonlight and glistened as he sunk into the earth, dead.
With the revolver still trained on the body as if daring it to twitch, Dylan stood over it, blood pounding his temple as he tried to get some air into his lungs. Sharp and uncompromising, his body tense and poised for another assault, his eyes scanned the graveyard. The sickening putrid stench of blood and gunpowder had somehow stuck into my nostrils and would take a long while to wash down.
Finally, he looked at me, his eyes dark and opaque, a tempest raging within them. His outstretched hand was silent, a command more than an offer. Shaking, I sought for him, his hands bringing me to my feet with ease. The world around us was strangely quiet, but the enormity of what had just occurred pressed down on me like a physical force.
Dylan didn't speak, but he didn't need to. The carnage around us told me everything.
Dylan's chest heaved as he dropped the rifle, his knuckles still white from the grasp. His eyes met me, piercing and filled with fury and rage. The pale moonlight showed the tightness in his jaw as he mumbled nearly silently yet loudly enough for me to hear.
He spat out, "That fucker sent them," with a bitter tone. His speech carried the weight of knowledge in a rough, unvarnished manner. "I should have followed my gut." "He knew we would be here." With jerky, restless movements, he ran a hand through his hair. "I had a feeling someone was following us, but I pushed it down, told myself I was just being paranoid."
His eyes darkened further, revealing a menacing glimmer as his lips twisted into a nasty smile. "Looks like he really wants a piece of my mind." The way he said it sent shivers down my spine, a promise of reckoning in every syllable.
He looked at the lifeless bodies splayed on the ground, his countenance hardening. "Okay, he'll get it. All of it. "On my terms."
My eyes dropped to the blood splattered across Dylan's shirt, stark and crimson against the dark fabric. The metallic smell in the air made my stomach churn, a nauseating wave threatening to consume me. I felt the familiar sickness rising, clawing at my throat like it always did in moments like these. But I swallowed it down, forcing myself to stay steady. This wasn't the time to falter.
"Do you believe he has figured it out?" My voice was tighter than I meant when I asked. "Those files weren't real? Or perhaps he had a clue that something was happening? My comments were hurried and revealed the anxiety I was desperately attempting to hide.
As Dylan's gaze shifted towards me, the pressure in my chest escalated to a forbidding level of intensity. Rather than softening, his expression grew sharper and more intense as he looked at me with razor-sharp piercing eyes. His gaze was so penetrating that I had to suck in my breath to quell the storm within me.
I bit my lip to steady myself. Too many. Too risky. It chilled me to the bone to consider that he might have put the pieces together. "After all, this wasn't arbitrary, was it?" I added, now unable to conceal the dread in my voice. Standing by waiting for an answer from Dylan, my heart went thudding loud in my ears, fingers balled up into fists with claws piercing into my hands.
Dylan's voice was low and tight as he looked around at the dark and added, "Yeah, he might've figured something out." His voice was distinctly tight, every syllable laced with the slightest hint of hurry and irritation. His eyes flickered onto me, sharp and appraising, as if silently determining that I was holding it together.
But let's leave this place. He turned toward the car and continued forcefully, "He moved quickly and deliberately, but there was a visible yet unmistakable load on his shoulders, signaling that the situation was bothering him more than he was letting on. Not safe here."
.I hesitated for a while, still stuck to the location, my thoughts racing with too many questions and worries. The bodies and the blood felt heavy, as did the unusual silence of the graveyard. But Dylan didn't pause or look back. Every step he took crunched on the gravel, reminding me that standing here was not an option.
Swallowing the knot in my throat, I forced my legs to move, trailing after him toward the car.
Dylan started the car, his grip on the steering wheel tense, the tires crunching over the gravel as we sped away from the graveyard. My heart hadn't stopped racing, the adrenaline still coursing through me, but just as I tried to steady myself, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I hesitated for a second before pulling it out, Lucas's name flashing on the screen.
I swiped to answer, barely getting out a "Hello" before his voice came barreling through the line like a storm.
"What the hell is going on, Ruth?" he practically shouted, his tone sharp, almost frantic. "Marcus has been losing his goddamn mind up here! I haven't seen you in two—no, three months! What the hell is happening?"
I froze, gripping the phone tighter, but Lucas didn't stop. His voice climbed, a mixture of anger and worry bleeding into every word.
"I know you've got yourself into trouble, so just fucking explain! Marcus threw a fit in his office today—he lost it completely. He was throwing shit around, yelling 'stupid bitch' like a maniac. People are scared, Ruth. I'm scared. Now tell me right now what the hell is going on!"
His words hit like a slap, each cutting deeper, but I couldn't respond. My throat felt tight, and for a moment, I just sat there in stunned silence, staring at the phone like it had betrayed me. My mind raced, trying to piece together an explanation, but nothing came out. Nothing made sense.
The silence stretched, my heart pounding louder with each second. Dylan's eyes flicked toward me briefly, his jaw tightening as if he could sense the chaos spilling through the phone. The car's interior felt suffocating, the tension thick enough to choke on. But I couldn't speak—I didn't know how to.
Lucas's voice cut through the silence again, this time even more urgent, more desperate.
"Ruth, fucking talk!" he nearly screamed into the phone. "I know you were working for that mafia guy—what happened? Are you okay? What the hell happened? Answer the fuck up!"
The fury and concern in his voice struck me like a physical blow. His words were sharp, like a rope tugging at the unraveling pieces of me that I'd been desperately trying to keep together. The reality of the situation—the danger, the lies, the weight of everything—pressed down on me like a vice.
I held my breath and blinked away the sting of tears in the back of my eyes, but my pulse thundered in my ears, and I was breathing far too quickly. I should have opened up at least a little, but how? To explain the disaster I'd generally brought upon myself and to have revealed everything. What do I have to do to explain the tangled mess I had landed in, the web of violence and lies encircled me?
Dylan glanced at me again. His face reveals nothing, although his grip on the wheel tightens, and his stare remains fixed. He understands I can't just answer like that.
"Ruth!" There was no stopping Lucas. His voice rose over my own hesitation- angry, raw, and desperate. "I need to know you're okay, goddammit. Just tell me something!"
I had taken a shallow, shivering breath and wrapped my fingers tight around the phone in an attempt to soothe myself. Lucas's words were still ringing in my ears, but I forced myself to respond, although the suffocating weight of the lie made it hard.
"I—I'm okay," I stuttered, my voice faltering for a split second. "I just… made a slip-up at work… which caused some chaos…" My words trailed off, the lie hanging in the air between us like a heavy fog. I couldn't bring myself to tell him the truth—not about the mafia, not about Dylan, not about anything. It was safer this way, I told myself. Safer for everyone.
I glanced over at Dylan, his face impassive as his hands gripped the wheel. His eyes stayed focused on the road ahead, the tension in his posture a silent acknowledgment of the danger we were both in. He didn't look at me, didn't react to the conversation I was having, but there was an unspoken understanding between us.
I swallowed, trying to keep my voice steady. "I just… need some time, Lucas. I'll handle it."
Lucas's voice crackled with frustration on the other end. "Ruth, damn it," he growled, but there was a slight tremor in his voice now, a crack in his anger that betrayed his concern. "I'm not buying it. You're in over your head. You better fucking tell me what's going on before it's too late."
But I couldn't. Not now. Not when everything was already spiraling out of control. "I'll be fine," I said quietly, more to myself than to him. "Just… don't worry about it."
And before Lucas could respond, I hung up.
Dylan's eyes flicked to me for a brief moment, his gaze steady, but there was something in it—a flicker of resolve—that made the weight in my chest loosen just a fraction. His grip on the steering wheel remained firm, his focus unwavering as he navigated the dark road ahead.
"It'll be okay," he said, his voice low but steady. His words seemed to carry a quiet assurance, one that felt strangely comforting, even if I wasn't sure I could trust it. "It's just a small attack. He's not the only killer shark in the sea."
Before I could fully grasp what he meant, Dylan kept going, voice steady but firmer now—like he needed to believe it himself. "There are a lot of people fighting over this," he said. "But I'm not just going to let this slide. Not without an answer."
His words didn't just hang in the air—they pressed down, like a promise sealed in heat. This wasn't just about protecting something. It was about delivering a reckoning. His jaw was tight, eyes burning with that unmistakable fury he didn't always say out loud. It wasn't just about surviving anymore. It was something deeper. A wound. A vow.
He drove us both back to his house in silence. I didn't speak. Didn't even try. The inside of the car was too quiet, too full of everything unsaid. My fingers stayed locked in my lap the entire ride. The tremble in my bones hadn't stopped, and I was still replaying everything—his hands gripping mine, the sharp scream of gunfire, the bodies hitting the ground.
When we pulled into the driveway, he got out without a word and came around to my side. My hand was already on the door handle, but I couldn't open it. I just… sat there. Frozen. My legs felt useless. Like they'd buckle the moment I tried to stand.
Dylan didn't rush me. He didn't speak either. He just opened the door and looked at me. Then, gently, he held out his hand. Just like that—nothing dramatic, nothing forced. A simple, open gesture.
And somehow, that broke me more than anything else tonight. I didn't hesitate. I took his hand, needing it like breath. His grip was warm and steady, the kind of contact that tethered me back into my own body. He helped me out of the car and into the house, quiet and patient, like I might shatter.
In the living room, I collapsed onto the couch. I leaned back, shut my eyes, and for a second, let everything fall away. The air was still. Heavy. And the house felt safer than I'd expected it to. It wasn't just walls—it was quiet. And right now, I needed quiet more than I could explain.
I didn't hear him move, but when I opened my eyes, he was there again. He handed me a glass of water, and I took it with a small nod of thanks. My smile was barely there, but it was the best I could manage. My voice came slower, hesitant, barely above a whisper.
"How did they know we'd be there?"
He didn't answer immediately. His face stayed unreadable, but something in his eyes shifted. Then, finally, with a tight jaw, he replied, "I don't know. Maybe I missed something. A tail. A signal. But I don't think they knew about you. It was me they were after."
My chest clenched. I wasn't sure I believed that.
"You're sure they don't know about what I'm doing?"
His eyes met mine, steady but haunted. "I don't think so. Not yet. Let's keep it that way. Just… let me handle it. Today was already too much. You should rest. Try to take it easy."
His voice softened slightly at the end. It wasn't a request. It was care. Quiet, unspoken, but there. I nodded, and his eyes softened too, just a little. A flicker of calm in the storm.
Then he left the room. I heard him close a door somewhere down the hall. A few minutes later, I heard him on the phone. His voice was quiet at first, but the tone shifted quickly. From tense to sharp. Then straight into anger.
I couldn't hear the words. But I could feel the rage. The frustration. The way his voice dropped low like he was holding back something darker.
When he came back out, he was already pulling on his jacket.
"There's a situation at one of my bases," he said. "Might be tied to this."
My body tensed again, all over. "Now? Are you serious? After all of this—today?"
He gave me a tired look. "Yeah. I don't know how it's all crashing down at once, but it is. And whoever pulled this… they had it mapped out."
I exhaled slowly, trying not to fall apart again. "Be careful," I whispered, meaning it more than I knew how to say. "This was no coincidence. Someone's pulling strings."
He nodded once, firm. "I know. Don't worry. I'll be careful. You—take the day off. Rest. Don't think too hard."
And then he was gone.
I sat there in the living room alone. Empty, quiet, like nothing had happened—but everything had. The graveyard. The gunshots. His arms around me. That moment of stillness before the chaos. His words.
I stared at the spot he'd been in, my chest burning, but my eyes stayed dry. Like my body didn't even know how to cry anymore.
I pressed my nails into the palm of my hand, harder and harder, until the skin split and warm blood bubbled up. It grounded me—more than anything else tonight.
Then I stood up slowly, legs stiff, my head still pounding. I walked toward the bedroom like I was sleepwalking. Every step felt wrong, like the world had shifted underneath my feet and didn't plan to settle anytime soon.
I needed sleep. Not because I was tired—though I was—but because I needed something to stop. Anything. My mind. My memory. The ache in my chest.
I crawled into bed without changing. Just lay there, curled into myself. Eyes open, then closed, then open again.
Hoping maybe, if I was lucky, I'd get a few hours of silence.