Jomiloju's POV
The dawn light filtered through the cracks in the boarded-up windows, casting jagged slivers of brightness on the cold, cracked floor. Outside, Lagos was waking—bustling, relentless, alive with noise and movement—but inside this safehouse, the silence was suffocating.
I sat curled against the wall, my fingers tracing the edges of the bracelet Steve had given me the night before. It was delicate, worn, and almost unbearably precious. His sister's bracelet. A token of a past filled with loss and pain. Somehow, it made me feel less alone in this nightmare.
I swallowed hard. The warmth of the bracelet against my skin was a stark contrast to the chill settling deep in my bones.
Steve was already awake, as always. His silhouette leaned against the doorway, eyes dark and unreadable beneath the heavy shadows cast by the morning light. The tension between us was thick, almost tangible—as if a single wrong word or movement could shatter the fragile balance we'd found in the darkness.
He didn't approach. Didn't speak.
I forced myself to meet his gaze, trying to steady the fluttering storm inside me.
"You don't touch me," I said quietly, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.
His jaw tightened. I could see the muscles clench under his skin, a silent war waging behind his cold eyes.
"Roses have thorns," he replied slowly, voice low and steady. "Touch the wrong way, and you get cut."
I bit back the tears threatening to spill. He was right—roses had thorns. And I was more than aware of how sharp they could be.
My mind replayed every moment of the past hours: the gun resting lazily on the table, his cautious steps toward me, the accidental touch that had ignited a fire I wasn't ready to feel.
I hated myself for needing him. For the flutter in my chest every time his eyes held mine a second too long.
But I hated more that I was starting to see him differently—not as the monster who kidnapped me, but as a man tangled in his own pain.
The weight of the bracelet in my hand was grounding, a small reminder that beneath the scars and the violence, Steve was human.
"Why do you even care?" I asked, voice barely above a whisper. "You're supposed to be my captor. The enemy."
He took a step forward, closing the distance just enough to send a shiver down my spine.
"I'm not the enemy," he said quietly. "Not to you."
I wanted to argue. To scream that this was all a lie. But something in his voice pulled me back.
For the first time, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, there was more to him than the cold, ruthless facade.
Steve's POV
She said the words like a wound.
"You don't touch me."
I understood every ounce of that. My hands were stained with blood and broken promises. I had shattered so many lives, and hers was just another name on the list.
But I wanted to be better. For her.
"Roses have thorns," I said, voice low, steady. "But I'm not here to hurt you."
Her eyes burned with defiance and pain.
I wanted to reach out, to bridge the gap between us, but I knew my touch could be a weapon as much as a promise.
The bracelet in my hand weighed heavy—not just with metal, but with memory. My sister's last gift to me, a reminder of the family I'd lost.
I held it out, hoping she'd understand what I couldn't say.
"This is all I have left of her," I said quietly. "It's yours now. A promise I'll protect you."
Her fingers trembled as she took it. For a moment, I saw the walls around her crack just a little.
Maybe it was hope. Or maybe it was something even more dangerous.
Jomiloju's POV
The bracelet was heavy with meaning.
I slid it onto my wrist, feeling its weight settle against my skin like a secret.
I looked at Steve—his scars, his haunted eyes, the quiet pain he carried—and I realized something terrifying.
Maybe I wasn't just a captive.
Maybe I was a rose growing in the dark.
The safehouse was still. The distant sounds of Lagos creeping back through the walls.
But inside me, a fire was waking.
Steve's POV
The city was coming back to life outside, but the war inside these walls was only beginning.
I couldn't promise her safety. Not from the mafia. Not from the ghosts of my past.
But I could promise I wouldn't let her face it alone.
I watched her from the doorway—fragile, fierce, alive.
And I knew, whatever came next, we were bound by more than just chains and threats.
Jomiloju's POV
The morning stretched long and heavy.
I traced the bracelet's worn edges, feeling the weight of its promise.
I wasn't just a pawn anymore.
I was fighting. For myself. For freedom. For something more.
The war outside would come.
But inside, I was beginning to bloom.