The Stranger's Warning
The rain was unrelenting, each drop needling Elara's skin as if the storm itself had turned against her. The stranger's words clung to her ears, deep and resonant:
"You're going the wrong way."
Her brows knitted. "Do you always stalk women in alleys just to sound mysterious?" Her voice was sharper than she intended, trembling with nerves more than anger.
The man didn't move. His tall frame blocked her path, the storm-light catching against his broad shoulders. He stood with the stillness of someone unbothered by the chaos around him, a predator at ease in his territory.
Elara shifted, her wet hair sticking to her flushed cheeks. "Move," she snapped, stepping sideways.
He mirrored her. One step. Smooth. Controlled. Unyielding.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
He tilted his head slightly, droplets sliding from the edge of his jaw. His eyes—those storm-gray eyes—never blinked. "Someone who knows you're in danger."
Elara's pulse stumbled. She gripped her coat tighter over her chest, the letter in her pocket burning like a curse. No one can know. They can't possibly know.
"You're mistaken," she whispered, though the lie felt weak against the intensity of his stare.
The corner of his mouth curved—not quite a smile, more like a dark recognition. "Am I?"
Thunder cracked overhead. Elara flinched. He didn't. He stepped closer instead, closing the gap between them, his presence suffocating and intoxicating all at once. She caught the faint scent of rain-soaked leather and something sharper, like smoke clinging to him.
Her body tensed. Her instincts screamed to run. Yet her feet wouldn't move.
He lowered his voice, gravelly and controlled. "The letter in your pocket… burn it."
Elara froze. The blood drained from her face. "What?"
"I said burn it." His gaze darkened, every syllable laced with quiet authority. "That letter is bait. If you keep it, you'll never escape what's coming."
Her heart lurched painfully. "How do you—" She stopped herself. Denying it was useless. This stranger—this man—already knew too much.
"Who sent you?" she demanded, her words cracking. "Are you one of them? Did you follow me?"
For the first time, something flickered across his face—a shadow of emotion, quickly masked. He leaned closer, so close his breath mingled with hers despite the rain.
"If I were one of them," he murmured, "you wouldn't be standing here right now."
Elara's chest tightened. Every instinct told her to scream, to push him away, to bolt into the darkness. Yet some inexplicable force kept her rooted, as though the storm itself had drawn her into his gravity.
Her eyes flicked over him—broad shoulders that looked capable of carrying the world, a sharp jaw clenched in restraint, lips that pressed words like secrets waiting to be broken. He was terrifying. He was magnetic. And somehow, he felt like the most dangerous kind of truth.
"I don't even know your name," she whispered, hating how small her voice sounded.
His eyes softened—barely. "Kael."
The name rolled through her, heavy, inevitable, like thunder itself.
"Elara." The word left her lips before she could stop it, as though he had pulled her name out of her soul.
His eyes locked on hers, unwavering. "I know."
Her stomach dropped. A chill swept over her that had nothing to do with the storm.
She staggered back, shaking her head. "No… you can't. You don't know me."
But he only watched her, silent, certain, as if every beat of the storm confirmed otherwise.
And somewhere deep in her chest, under all the panic and disbelief, was a single horrifying truth—
She wanted to believe him.
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