The car smelled of leather and smoke. Maeve sat rigid in the back seat, pulse hammering against her ribs. Every muscle screamed at her that this was madness.
What was she doing?
What are you doing, Maeve Byrne? She thought.
She had gone with him. A stranger. A shadow who had stepped out of an alley and dragged her into the dark. She should have run, should have screamed. Instead, she was here... caged in a black car beside a man whose eyes looked at her like a predator deciding her fate.
Her pulse leaped when his gaze slid toward her, intense enough to strip her bare. For a moment she was certain he was about to kill her. What kind of power did he have, to make her obey without a word? The truth cut through her panic: she had no choice.
She didn't trust him. But some foolish, desperate part of her believed he wouldn't hurt her. What a fool you are, Maeve Byrne.
She had followed a stranger. A shadow in an alley. A man whose grip was iron, whose eyes had seen straight through her. She should have fought, screamed, run... anything but this.
Panic surged hot in her chest. Why did I come with him?
She didn't know. And worse... what if this was it? What if this was how her life ended, a foreign street in a country she barely knew, her body left in some alley? She had never imagined that coming to Morocco would mean the end of her life.
Her fingers curled tightly around her notebook, as if ink and paper could anchor her to herself.
The man beside her hadn't spoken since pulling her from the riot. His presence filled the narrow space, heavy and unyielding. Every movement, every glance, made the air feel thinner.
Then, without warning, he pulled out a phone.
His voice filled the car... low, sharp, rolling through words she didn't understand. Arabic, she guessed, though harsher than the fragments she had heard in markets. Commanding, clipped. Not conversation. Orders.
She swallowed hard. Her lungs burned as though she'd forgotten how to breathe.
When the call ended, silence returned, thick as smoke.
Maeve's voice cracked as it escaped her throat. "What… what do you want from me?"
For a heartbeat, she thought he wouldn't answer. Then he turned, eyes catching hers. The scarf had slipped just enough to reveal the hard edge of his jaw, and a thin scar cutting through the skin there... a mark of violence, or survival.
He watched her in silence, and the longer his eyes held hers, the tighter her chest became. She turned away, trying to draw air into her lungs, when his voice finally filled the car.
"I'm Azlan Al-Sayid."
The name rolled like thunder, heavy, deliberate, leaving her breathless. His aura pressed against her, suffocating and magnetic. Maeve flinched.
"Don't be scared, habíbti," he murmured, low and deep. The foreign endearment wrapped itself around her like smoke, both soothing and sinister. "I won't hurt you."
His voice calmed her for half a second, but beneath it, she felt the sharp edge of danger. Why did he look like a killer?
No. She wouldn't crumble. Not in front of him. Maeve forced her chin up, locking her eyes on his.
Those eyes were pits of darkness, emotionless. Pure evil. A devil in human form.
"Where are you taking me?" she demanded, her voice steadier than she felt.
"Tell me where you stay," he replied smoothly, "and I'll drop you off."
Her eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"
He said nothing, only stared, his gaze piercing hers, unblinking, binding her like chains. The silence itself was more dangerous than words.
Her throat tightened. "Why are you helping me?"
This time, his answer was a knife.
"I protect what is mine."
Her heart thudded violently. His?
"What do you mean...'what is yours'?" she pushed.
"Relax, Maeve."
Her blood ran cold.
He knew her name.
She hadn't told him. She hadn't introduced herself.
A chill tore down her spine. Who is he? How does he know me?
"Stop the car," Azlan said suddenly.
The driver obeyed instantly, pulling to the curb. Maeve's stomach dropped. She hadn't given him her address, hadn't spoken a word of it and yet the car slowed in front of her hotel.
Her breath caught. He knows where I live.
Panic clawed up her throat. Who is he? Some obsessed creep? A misogynist who stalks women, claims them like objects?
Her heart thundered so hard she thought it might break her ribs.
Azlan only watched her, expression unreadable. The door opened. She stepped out on shaking legs. When she turned back, the car was already melting into the night, swallowed by shadow.
She shut the door, slid the lock into place, and leaned her forehead against the wood.
For a moment she simply stood there, pulse skittering. He had saved her, yes... but it didn't feel like safety. It felt like being marked.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Aoife.
Maeve grabbed it like a drowning woman clutches rope, her chest tightening at the sight of a Dublin name. She answered before the second ring.
"You're alive!" Aoife's voice tumbled out, fierce with relief. "Thank God. Maeve Byrne, do you have any idea how worried I've been? What's going on over there? And don't you dare tell me you're sipping cocktails while I'm trapped in rain-soaked misery."
Maeve gave a brittle laugh. "If by cocktails you mean tear gas, then yes. Very glamorous."
A beat of silence. "Wait... tear gas? What the actual hell are you talking about?"
So Maeve told her. The riots. The crush of bodies. The alley. The stranger who had pulled her out. She skipped the parts that still burned too close to her skin... the way his eyes had locked hers, the weight of his voice when he called her habíbti... but she gave Aoife the rest.
For a moment, her best friend was quiet. Then Aoife exploded.
"Hold on. Hold on. You nearly get flattened in a riot, some tall-dark-and-sinister mystery man drags you into a car, drops his name like he's in a gangster movie, calls you bloody habíbti, and then leaves you at your door like you're a parcel from Amazon Prime?"
Despite everything, Maeve's lips curved. "That's… about right."
"Oh, Jesus." Aoife's laugh was half-horror, half-awe. "Maeve, do you realize what you've done? You've been rescued by one of your own bloody characters."
The words lodged deep.
Maeve forced a shaky laugh, but something in her chest twisted hard. Aoife thought it was a joke. But Maeve knew better.
Fiction didn't bleed. Fiction didn't breathe.
But Azlan Al-Sayid was real.
And God help her, she didn't know what that meant.
She lay awake long after the city had gone quiet, sheets twisted around her, her suitcase half-packed by the door.
Azlan Al-Sayid.
The name coiled around her like smoke, refusing to leave. She should have felt relief... he hadn't harmed her, hadn't kept her, hadn't demanded anything. And yet…
She had been certain in that alley he would kill her. Men with eyes like his didn't save women. They destroyed them. But instead, he had saved her, then vanished.
Why?
At three a.m., she finally admitted the truth to herself: she wasn't safe here. Tomorrow morning, she'd leave Morocco. Her article was finished, her editor pacified. She'd get on the first flight and bury this behind her.
But still, her mind circled him like a moth drawn to flame. His name, his words, his eyes... I protect what is mine.
The vibration of her phone cut through the silence. She jolted upright, heart in her throat.
Cormac.
Her boss's name glowed across the cracked screen. She swiped before she could think, whispering a shaky, "Hello?"
"Maeve? Jesus Christ, are you alright?" His Irish brogue was sharper than usual, thick with concern. "The footage from Marrakesh is everywhere, police firing, crowds scattering. It's all over the bloody internet. I nearly had a heart attack when I saw it."
Her stomach tightened. "I'm fine," she lied, wrapping an arm around herself. "Just… tired. I stayed clear of it."
"You sound like death. Maeve, listen to me... pack up and come back. The story's done, I've read the draft. You don't owe anyone here another minute. Forget Morocco, get out before something else goes wrong."
Her gaze flicked to the suitcase by the door. Already packed. Already decided. "I was going to," she murmured.
"Good," he said, softer now, but still uneasy. "Book the first flight out. And Maeve... don't chase danger. It's not worth your skin."
She swallowed, her throat dry. "I'm not chasing anything."
But when she hung up, her chest ached with the weight of the lie. She was already gone, already escaping but it didn't feel like freedom. It felt like running from a shadow that had marked her, one she couldn't unsee.
She pulled the suitcase closer, zipped it fully shut, and set her alarm for dawn. One more night. That was all. By morning she'd be gone.
And then,
Knock. Knock.
The sound froze her in place. Two raps. Firm. Measured. Not a neighbor's drunken stumble. Not housekeeping.
Her pulse spiked so hard it hurt. Slowly, she turned toward the door.
Someone was waiting on the other side.