The rain started again that evening — soft, steady, like a warning against the glass.
Emily had been pacing her room for hours, listening to the distant hum of voices downstairs. The air in the mansion always felt too still, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. She hated that silence. It made her feel watched.
She walked to the window, peering out into the dark courtyard. Security lights glowed faintly over the wet stone driveway. She could make out two figures standing near the gate, one smoking, one checking his watch. Guards. Always guards.
She didn't belong here.
Her chest tightened. "I can't keep doing this," she whispered to herself.
She needed air — just a few minutes outside. Maybe if she walked down to the garden, she could think clearly again.
So when she heard the faint click of footsteps in the hall, she froze, waited until they faded, then slipped out quietly.
The corridor was dim, lit only by the flicker of a chandelier's dying bulb. Her heart thudded as she crept toward the back staircase.
Halfway down, she heard voices — low, urgent, male.
"—he's on his way. Shouldn't be here."
"Orders were clear. No one moves without Vale's signal."
Emily's pulse jumped. Vale. Lucas. They were talking about him.
She leaned closer, just enough to see the two men at the end of the hall near a side door. They weren't in uniforms. One of them held a gun.
Her breath caught.
And then the other one turned — their eyes met.
"Hey!" he shouted.
Emily bolted.
She didn't think, didn't plan. She just ran — through the corridor, around a corner, heart pounding so hard it drowned out the sound of her bare feet on the marble floor. Behind her, she heard the crash of footsteps, the slam of a door.
She turned down another hallway — wrong move. Dead end.
The men were closer now. She could hear their voices, sharp and cold.
"Find her!"
Her hands shook as she reached for the nearest door handle — locked. Next one — locked too. She stumbled back, gasping.
Then a door behind her opened.
A hand grabbed her arm and yanked her inside.
Before she could scream, a familiar voice cut through the dark.
"Quiet."
Lucas.
He shut the door silently behind her.
The room was dimly lit — an office, maybe. Books, shadows, the faint smell of smoke. Emily could barely breathe.
"They—there were men—" she stammered.
"I know." His voice was low, controlled. Too calm.
He stepped past her, reaching into a drawer, pulling out a gun.
"You're going to stay right here," he said, chambering a round with mechanical precision. "Don't move. Don't make a sound."
"Lucas, what's happening?"
He didn't answer. His eyes were different now — no trace of the man who'd spoken gently that morning. They were cold, lethal.
And before she could stop him, he was gone.
Emily's knees almost gave out. She pressed a trembling hand against her mouth, listening. The silence stretched — then broke.
Gunfire.
Two sharp cracks, muffled but close.
Her body locked. She stumbled to the door, pressing her ear against it. Another shot. A curse. A heavy thud.
Then footsteps — slow, steady.
The door opened.
Lucas stood there, breathing hard, gun still in his hand. There was blood on his sleeve — not his, she realized. His eyes met hers, dark and unreadable.
"It's over," he said simply.
Emily's voice trembled. "You—what did you—"
"They weren't mine."
He holstered the weapon, his expression unreadable. "They got inside. They knew you were here."
She felt the world tilt. "You mean… they came for me?"
His jaw tightened. "You're part of this now, whether you like it or not."
Her throat went dry. "I didn't ask for this—"
"No," he cut in, stepping closer. "But saving me made you a name on a list. And I don't let people under my protection die."
Something flickered in his eyes then — not warmth, not exactly. But something human.
"I told you," he murmured, voice low. "If I let you leave, they'd find you. Tonight was proof."
Emily couldn't speak. Her hands were shaking, her heart pounding too fast. He reached for her wrist — not rough, but steady — grounding her.
"You're safe now," he said quietly. "I'll make sure of it."
But even as she looked at him — blood on his hands, calm in the aftermath of violence — she didn't feel safe.
She felt trapped in something far bigger than she understood.
And yet, against all logic, part of her couldn't look away from him.
From the man who killed without hesitation.
And from the strange, impossible truth that he'd done it to keep her alive.