The world doesn't stop just because your life falls apart.
People still laugh in restaurants, buy overpriced coffee, and fall in love with strangers—while I'm hiding in the ugliest corner of New York, wondering when he'll find me again.
Jake always finds me.
This is my seventh city in fourteen months.
Seventh motel. Seventh alias.
And still, I feel his breath on the back of my neck.
The motel room smells like something died and came back for revenge. Mold. Cigarette burns. Something sour in the carpet. The ceiling leaks when it rains. The heater works only when I don't need it.
But it's cheap, and no one asks questions. That's what matters.
I sit on the bed—if you can call it that—and stare at the wall. Cracked paint. Old stains. The kind of place where no one would think to look for someone like me.
But Jake isn't just anyone.
He's a monster with a memory.
I used to love him. That's the part that haunts me most. I gave him my heart—and a spare key.
My stomach growls. I haven't eaten since yesterday morning. I reach for my bag and count the cash.
Two hundred and four dollars.
That's all that stands between me and the street. And my rent's due in two days.
I sigh and pull on my coat. Maybe a cheap dinner. Something hot. Something that doesn't taste like regret.
I'm halfway to the door when someone knocks.
Three short raps. Precise.
My chest tightens. My fingers wrap around the handle of the knife tucked in my waistband. The one I sleep with under my pillow.
"Who is it?" My voice is barely above a whisper.
"Room service," a young voice says.
I never ordered anything.
My heart pounds. I stare at the door like it might explode.
Still holding the knife, I crack the door open an inch.
A teenage boy stands there holding a tray of food and looking more scared than I feel. I nearly stab him.
I mutter a shaky apology, shut the door, and lock it twice.
He's getting closer. I can feel it in my bones.
The Chinese restaurant is dim and mostly empty. The waitress doesn't smile when I walk in, and I'm glad. Smiles make me suspicious now.
I take the booth in the corner—always the corner, always with my back to the wall—and order something cheap.
I eat fast. Every bite is a battle between hunger and fear. I keep glancing at the door, the window, the shadows on the sidewalk.
I don't know what peace feels like anymore.
I miss laughing. I miss music. I miss not flinching when someone taps my shoulder.
I miss being someone else—someone not hunted.
I pay in cash and leave without finishing my drink. The cold air hits me like a slap when I step outside. New York smells like damp concrete and bad decisions.
I walk fast. Almost running.
And then it happens.
A sharp tug. Pain in my arm. A hand over my mouth. I'm yanked into the alley like a rag doll.
My back slams into a brick wall. The breath leaves my lungs.
The scent hits me first.
That cologne. My gift to him. The one I used to bury my face in. Now it makes me want to scream.
"You smell the same," Jake whispers in my ear. His hand slides under my coat. "God, I missed you."
I thrash, but he's too strong.
"I'm gonna take my hand off your mouth," he growls. "You scream, you die."
I nod.
He lets go.
And I scream.
He hits me. Hard. My head snaps to the side.
"You never learn," he hisses, pinning me with his body. "You're mine, Chole. You'll always be mine."
"Let her go."
The voice is deep. Calm. Unfazed.
Jake turns, confused. I look past him and see a man stepping out of the shadows. Tall. Built like he's used to fighting. Eyes cold and unreadable.
"I said let her go," the man repeats, his voice like a quiet storm.
Jake scoffs. "Walk away, hero. This is none of your business."
The man steps closer. His gaze doesn't shift. "You've made it my business."
Jake lunges.
He shouldn't have.
Two hits—fast, brutal. Jake hits the ground with a sound like meat hitting concrete.
Blood pours from his nose. He groans.
The man crouches beside him. "You come near her again," he says quietly, "and I will end you."
Jake scrambles up and vanishes into the dark.
I slide down the wall, gasping, trembling. The man turns to me, his expression shifting from stone to something softer.
"You're safe," he says.
I don't answer. I can't. My throat feels closed.
He kneels in front of me. "Are you hurt?"
I shake my head. My voice finally comes, hoarse. "Who are you?"
A pause.
"Sabastain."
He doesn't explain. Doesn't offer more.
But in that moment, I feel it.
Whoever this man is… he doesn't just save people. He fights for them.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel something strange.
Hope.
SABASTIAN'S POV
I didn't expect the girl to scream. But when she did, I moved without thinking.
The alley was dark , but I saw enough when a car's headlight zoomed passed it
A man's hand gripping her throat. Blood on her cheek. Her eyes wild with fear.
And something inside me snapped.
He hit the ground two seconds later.
I didn't give him time to speak, didn't care who he was. All I knew was that no man should ever look at a woman like she's property.
He groaned, then scrambled into the night like a coward.
She was shaking. Slumped against the wall like her legs had given out. Her breath came in fast, shallow bursts. I crouched beside her.
"You're safe now."
No response. Just wide eyes, too shocked to cry.
"Are you hurt?"
She shook her head. Barely. Then she whispered, "Who are you?"
"Sabastain."
That was all I offered. That's all she could take.
I helped her to her feet. She winced as I steadied her, but didn't pull away. That told me more than words. She didn't trust me—but she was too tired to fight.
My driver was parked around the corner. Reed opened the door without a word. He's been with me long enough to know when not to ask questions.
She sat beside me, clutching her small bag like it was a lifeline.
Back at the apartment, she didn't speak. Not during the elevator ride, not when I showed her to the guest room, not when I handed her a glass of water. She only nodded, mumbled a quiet "thank you," and disappeared into the room.
I didn't sleep that night.
Every hour, I checked on her. Just a crack of the door to make sure she was still breathing. She didn't move, barely even shifted. Like her body had finally surrendered.
She reminded me of someone.
Someone I couldn't save.
The next morning, I made coffee and breakfast. I was having a drink at the bar,
then came the knock- loud, familiar and completely unwanted.
Stefan and Storm.
Brothers and chaos in equal measure.
They barged in like the own the place. Stefan was complaining about his wife again, Storm was laughing about it.
I smiled and laughed a bit but still very much distracted.
" So Sabastian, do you agree"? I nodded, distracted.
They both stared at me like I'd lost my damn mind.
We heard a noise from the stairs and a whistle from Storm, then she walked in.
Hair still damp as it simply framed her pink oval face. Wearing one of the polo shirts I'd left out for her. Her arms hugged her waist like a shield.
She paused when she saw the room wasn't empty.
Storm blinked. Stefan frowned. And for once, neither had anything to say.
Her gaze found mine.
I stood upright, walking towards her. "You're awake."
She gave a small smile. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"You're not."
Storm shot me a look. Stefan arched an eyebrow.
But I didn't care.
She was here. Alive. Safe. For now.
I didn't know what came next.
But I knew one thing for certain:
I wasn't letting her walk alone again.