The moment his strong arms wrapped around me, a profound, shuddering relief swept through my entire being. My knees, weak from fear and adrenaline, almost gave way, but I clung to him, burying my face into his broad shoulder. The coarse fabric of his suit scratched against my cheeks, but I didn't care. I held on with a desperate grip, my bandaged hands pressing against the warmth of him as if sheer force could anchor me to safety.
His scent—smoky and faintly earthy, with something uniquely his—was grounding. It pulled me out of the chaotic swirl of my memories, out of the echoing crash of doors and the metallic tang of blood that still lingered in my mind.
"YOU WOULDN'T KNOW WHAT MY MEMORIES HOLD, BUT I... THAT SOUND IS HORRIFYING TO ME."
I shivered, knowing he couldn't possibly grasp the weight of it. My past was a fragile web, and the clatter of violence always threatened to unravel me completely. He sensed it without words. He lifted me, the movement firm and unyielding, pressing me closer against the protective shadow of his coat. I felt the fabric brush against something dark—dried blood, perhaps, or remnants of the fight—but my focus was only on him. Squeeze. My hands tightened, instinctively, refusing to let go, to let the safety dissolve.
A voice shattered the fragile cocoon around us.
Sir Eiser's Rescue
The sound of hurried strides echoed behind us, accompanied by a breathless exclamation.
"I FOLLOWED AS QUICKLY AS I COULD… BUT LOOKS LIKE SIR EISER'S ALREADY GOT A HANDLE ON THE SITUATION!"
The aide's face appeared at the edge of the scene, a mixture of urgency and relief etched across his features. He stopped short when he saw me in Eiser's arms, eyes widening.
"LADY SERENA! ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?" His voice cracked slightly, strained from the tension.
Eiser didn't release me. He merely held me tighter, his calm presence radiating reassurance stronger than any words could.
The aide's voice softened, almost inaudibly, a note of relief threading through his tones. Then, more formally, he addressed Eiser again:
"SO SHE REALLY WAS HERE. I'M SO RELIEVED… SHE SEEMS UNHARMED."
Eiser's calm reply cut through the lingering unease like steel through fog.
"SIR EISER! I'LL UPDATE THE POLICE AND DEAL WITH THE AFTERMATH HERE! DON'T WORRY!" He gestured toward the darkened house, the faint light from broken windows revealing the remnants of the struggle.
"There are people on the second floor as well. Start by confiscating their weapons," Eiser instructed, voice steady, commanding, leaving no room for hesitation.
The Aftermath and Escape
The aide turned immediately to the fallen men, moving with practiced urgency. Eiser finally allowed me a slight shift in his hold, enough for me to glance at him, though his arm remained firmly around my shoulders. Every step he led me down the steps, away from the scene, was measured, purposeful.
I heard the aide reporting in, his voice grim.
"I DON'T SEE SIR VICTOR HERE, BUT THESE MEN ARE DEFINITELY HIS HENCHMEN."
A note of reluctant respect crept in. "Remarkably, he missed their vital points and aimed at only their hands, feet, or shoulders."
A groan of pain, low and ragged, came from one of the men sprawled on the floor. The aide's analysis continued, unfinished:
"I SUPPOSE IT'S FOR THE—"
Eiser didn't wait to hear the conclusion. He guided me past the bodies, the lingering metallic smell heavy in the air, and out into the quiet lane beyond. The "clack" of the car door closing behind us sounded almost ceremonial, a final seal on the night's violence.
The engine roared to life with a powerful "VROOM," and we were moving, leaving the shattered house and its horrors behind. The road curved sharply, the dark woods pressing close on either side, swallowing the scene of chaos. I stole a glance out the window, catching sight of the aide standing by the roadside. His concern was palpable, but he gave us a final, steadying look before the car made another sharp turn, and the rest of the world disappeared into the trees.
I was safe. I was with him. That alone was enough.
As the car's engine faded into the forest, I pictured the aide standing at the roadside, his chest rising and falling with a long, tense sigh. Relief fought against lingering dread in his expression, each exhale a delicate balance of both. I could almost hear the unspoken thoughts flicker in his mind: I suppose it's for the best… If Sir Victor had been here tonight, either he or Sir Eiser would have fallen. No, both might have… The weight of that rivalry hung over all of us like a storm cloud, heavy and inevitable.
His gaze swept over the chaos left behind—the sprawled men, the subtle scars of the fight still visible in broken furniture and bloodied floors. He crouched slightly, inspecting them quickly, calculating.
"QUICKLY. TAKE THOSE MEN TO THE HOSPITAL BEFORE THEY BLEED TO DEATH," he ordered sharply, his tone slicing through the night's calm. Every word carried urgency. I imagined the precise thought behind it: Eiser's aim had been mercilessly efficient, striking only where it would incapacitate, leaving them alive but unable to threaten further.
A Halt in the Woods
The drive was brief, yet each passing shadow and curve in the winding forest road pressed on my frayed nerves. The car, sleek and dark, finally eased off the path and stopped in a small clearing beside a creek. Towering trees loomed around us, their branches clawing at the sky. Moonlight filtered through the canopy in stark, silver slivers, illuminating the creek's rippling surface and painting the dewy grass in ghostly light. A symphony of distant insects punctuated the night—a constant, insistent chirp that felt almost unreal after the chaos we'd left behind.
Eiser cut the engine, and a profound silence settled over us, thick and absolute. No wind, no birds, nothing but the faint, rhythmic rush of water over stones.
He opened his door and stepped out. I followed, legs trembling beneath me, barely trusting them to hold. Each step on the wet grass sent up a whispering hiss. We stopped near the creek, the massive trunk of an ancient tree stretching overhead, gnarled roots disappearing into the soil like black veins.
Eiser spun slowly, the motion precise, deliberate. Moonlight cast his features into sharp relief. His usual impeccable suit and tie were gone. Instead, he wore only a stark white shirt, now mottled with dark specks—my blood, the blood of his adversaries. His hair, slicked back, caught the pale glow, giving him an almost spectral aura. His ice-blue eyes cut through the night like daggers, calm yet terrifyingly alive.
There was a tension about him I had never seen before. Not the measured control of combat, not the poised demeanor of command—but something raw, personal, almost predatory.
"TAKE IT OFF."
Two words. Clipped. Harsh. Unyielding. The command ricocheted across the clearing, clashing with the soft chirping of insects and the gentle rush of the creek.
The Aggravated Touch
"WH-WHAT?" I stammered, my voice brittle, fragile. My hands instinctively clutched the dark, blood-speckled coat he had insisted I keep wrapped around myself. My mind spun in confusion.
Before I could even think to resist, he was on me. His hands gripped the edges of the coat, and with an abrupt, almost violent "YANK," he pulled it from my shoulders. The action was rough, impatient, nothing like his usual careful, practiced touch.
HIS TOUCHES ARE AGGRAVATED, ROUGH, AND IMPATIENT.
I was left standing there, exposed under the merciless moonlight. My blouse, flecked with red, clung to my skin. My breath caught in my chest, a small, uneven "huff" escaping me.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" My voice was uncertain, edged with fear and exhaustion, a fragile thread trembling in the cool night air.
I met his gaze. He was impossibly close, too close, his intensity radiating like heat. The adrenaline crash left me weak, shivering. I couldn't even muster the strength to lift a finger, yet I felt every ounce of his raw, searing focus aimed squarely at me.
His eyes never wavered. They blazed with a fury that was startlingly pure. It wasn't anger at me, not exactly—it was more protective, possessive, terrifying in its single-minded intensity. His knuckles whitened as he crumpled the coat in his hand, the motion abrupt, loaded with unspoken emotion.
My thoughts skittered back to the source of all this danger—the man whose actions had brought blood and chaos to us tonight. The thought of him, the orchestrator of violence, made my chest tighten, a bitter chill coiling around my heart.
THAT FILTHY, DISGUSTING BASTARD…
The only thing that could match the dark, raw fury radiating from Eiser's presence was the thought of Victor. And now, standing so close, I could feel that fury like a physical force, brushing over me, filling the clearing, wrapping around us both.
I stared at Eiser, utterly bewildered by the sheer force of his reaction. His eyes, usually icy, calculating, and controlled, blazed with a terrifying intensity that left me rooted to the spot. It wasn't anger at me. No—it was something far deeper, far more primal: a furious, possessive need to erase the traces of what had happened.
His voice was low, a growl that seemed to vibrate through the clearing, tight with controlled fury.
"HIS BLOOD IS ALL OVER YOU."
The words hit me like a physical blow. My gaze flicked downward, finally registering the truth of his statement. He wasn't just talking about the coat I had been wearing—it was gone now, a discarded, filthy heap at his feet. His anger wasn't aimed at the garment. It was aimed at me, or rather at the idea that another man's presence—his violence, his contamination—had touched me.
"THE SIGHT OF ANOTHER MAN'S TRACES ON YOU, THE SCENT OF HIS BLOOD LINGERING ON YOUR BODY… IT'S INTOLERABLY INFURIATING AND REPULSIVE."
His words were like steel. Sharp. Unyielding. I could feel them clawing through the fog of exhaustion and adrenaline still clouding my mind. I understood in that instant: he wasn't disgusted with me—he was disgusted that anyone, anyone but him, could have left a mark on me. The idea that Victor's presence—even his blood—touched me, sullied me, was intolerable.
A wave of nausea rose in my chest as I realized just how badly I had been marked. Crimson specks dotted my collar, ran along my sleeves, and streaked across the pale fabric of my suit. My gaze fell lower, and my heart clenched.
The bruise on my thigh, dark and angry against my skin, caught my attention—a fresh wound from the scuffle—and the reddish spots across the fabric traced the path of the violence I had endured.
IT'S EVEN ON HER BARE SKIN…
I felt the silent weight of his gaze on me, a tormented accusation radiating from his every line of sight. He saw it all—the injuries, the blood, the lingering evidence of Victor's attack—and it seemed to drive him past the edge of self-control.
The RIP
Before I could process what he intended, his hand shot out. It went straight to the side of my garment, where the bloodstains were thickest, and seized the fabric with a force that left me frozen. There was no warning, no hesitation—only a desperate, furious need to obliterate the contamination.
With a brutal yank, the seam gave way. A loud, tearing sound ripped through the night: "RIP—RIIIP."
I gasped, breath catching painfully in my throat, too stunned to speak as he ripped the material from my body. The fabric surrendered under his grip, leaving the skin beneath exposed, vulnerable, trembling in the moonlight. This wasn't the measured, polished Eiser I knew. This was raw, impulsive, feral—every movement loaded with a violent, possessive urgency.
The second tear came just as abruptly: "RIIIP." I sank back against the massive tree behind me, stunned, watching the intensity in his ice-blue gaze. He tore relentlessly until the suit was nothing but ruined fragments pooling around my feet.
Finally, he settled back on his knees before me, eyes locked on my exposed, shivering body. The cool night air brushed against my bare skin, amplifying the shock, the vulnerability, and the intimacy of the moment. All around us, the evidence of his wrath and protection lingered—the bloodied, torn remnants, the shattered calm of the forest clearing.
The Cleansing in the Creek
After a long moment, his expression softened slightly, as if the edge of his fury had given way to a tortured, almost desperate resolution. He couldn't stand to see me injured, dirty, tainted by another man's violence.
Without a word, he rose and strode toward the small creek running through the clearing. I watched him, confused and breathless, as he paused at the water's edge. Then, with decisive, almost ceremonial movements, he began stripping off the evidence of the fight from himself.
A firm, commanding pull and his bloodied white shirt slipped down his arms, dropped to the ground, revealing his powerful, muscular chest, faintly marked with drops of his blood and that of the men he had incapacitated. Moonlight highlighted every contour, every scar, every tense line of his body, and I found myself shivering not just from the cold, but from the raw energy radiating from him.
He stepped into the shallow creek, the water cold and bright under the moon, sending up small "SPLASH… SPLASH" echoes as he bent, submerging his arms and washing the blood from his hands and knuckles. Each movement was purposeful, almost ritualistic—not just to cleanse himself, but to prepare, silently, to cleanse me next.
I sat on the grass, weak, still trembling from adrenaline and fear, yet watching. Slowly, I understood the truth: this ferocious, unpolished possessiveness was his unique form of concern. He didn't just want me safe. He wanted me untouched—untainted—by the darkness that hunted me.
Eiser finished washing his hands in the creek, the water sparkling as it slid from his skin before settling into a soft, persistent trickle. His broad back, carved and taut from years of discipline, glistened in the moonlight, starkly exposed against the dark forest. He still wore his pants, but the wet sheen of his skin caught the silver glow of the moon in a way that made him look almost otherworldly, a creature carved from both shadow and light.
He gathered his ruined shirt, now dripping with water, and dunked it back into the creek with a violent splash, sending droplets scattering across the dewy grass. I leaned back against the rough bark of the massive tree behind me, trying—futilely—to gather the frayed threads of my nerves. The night air brushed against my exposed skin, cool and sharp, but inside me, a consuming heat twisted through my chest and stomach.
"I GET IT. I MUST BE A RIGHT MESS," I rasped, my voice hoarse, barely carrying over the soft rush of the creek. I watched him retrieve his wet shirt, the fabric clinging to his hands, heavy with water. His gaze was fixed, controlled, shadowed by residual anger, and a strange, lingering protectiveness.
"But…" I hesitated, searching for the right words, the right core to articulate my bewilderment. He was clean now, a damp, magnificent figure of the night, every movement precise despite the chaos that had preceded it. And here I was—ripped, bloodied, and fragile. My hands traced the edge of the torn fabric of my suit unconsciously, the memory of the violent ripping still raw against my skin. I had to ask the question, the simplest, unavoidable one.
He knelt above me, eyes still shadowed with residual rage, his posture tense and deliberate. My words trembled, carried more by necessity than courage:
"...WHY ARE YOU SO ANGRY?"
He didn't flinch. A tense pause hung between us, thick and almost tangible, broken only by the soft rush of the creek and the whisper of wind through the leaves. His chest rose and fell with heavy, deliberate breaths. The remnants of the fight and the explosive fury he had displayed moments ago still clung to him like smoke around a flame.
The Cleansing
Then he moved. Slowly, deliberately, his hands reaching for the wet fabric of the shirt. This time, there was no violence. No tearing. Only an urgent, meticulous tenderness, as though he were repairing not just the visible damage, but the invisible, lingering stain of the night's terror.
He didn't meet my eyes. His gaze stayed fixed entirely on the bruises, the cuts, the smeared blood on my exposed body. He dipped the sleeve of the wet shirt into the creek and pressed the cool, dripping fabric against my thigh. The cloth was rough, yet strangely comforting under his insistence.
"RUB," he murmured, though the words were almost lost under the faint chorus of dripping water. His hands worked tirelessly, scrubbing with a relentless focus, erasing the evidence of the attack, the traces of Victor's violence, the remnants of the torn suit.
I couldn't stop my body from shaking. Not from the cold—the air was cool but tolerable—but from sheer exhaustion, from the raw intimacy of the moment. He was cleansing me, painstakingly, obsessively, as if each drop of water carried away not just blood, but the shadow of danger itself.
I watched him, unable to tear my gaze from the bowed angle of his head, the tension of his shoulders, the precise, unwavering attention he gave to every inch of my wounds.
I guess you're really disgusted with how I look right now, so much so that you can't even bear to look at me.
The thought pricked at me—a painful mixture of reluctant acceptance and quiet resentment.
I continued to stare at the angry, beautiful man before me, his hands moving with unyielding purpose. I needed to understand the strange, almost paradoxical force behind this reaction.
"WHY WOULD YOU BE SO UPSET ABOUT HOW DISHEVELED I LOOK?" I pressed, my voice low, almost tentative.
He said nothing, merely continued his work. The wet fabric traced a trail of cool, clean water down my leg, the soft drip… drip… a quiet counterpoint to the intensity of his presence, and to the tremor that had settled in my chest.
The Paradox
I lifted my gaze, past the top of his head, and into the deep, turbulent blue of the night sky. A sudden wind gusted through the trees, a sharp WHOOOSH that rustled leaves and sent shivers across my bare skin. My thoughts spun in chaotic circles, spiraling into fundamental questions I had no words for.
THE TWO OF US ARE ACTING VERY STRANGE RIGHT NOW.
It was more than strange. It defied logic. We were linked by something fierce, possessive, and consuming, yet outwardly we remained bound by rules neither of us could fully articulate.
WHO ARE YOU TO ME THAT I'M ENTRUSTING MY BODY TO AND RELYING ON YOU?
WHO AM I TO YOU THAT YOU'RE SO OUTRAGED ABOUT MY UNTIDY APPEARANCE?
The contrast was staggering. He tended to me as one might a lover, yet the motivation behind his care was framed by a brutal, protective ownership that seemed almost larger than our relationship.
IT'S LIKE A CONVOLUTED PARADOX.
A riddle with no answer, hanging between the moonlight, the whispering creek, and the terrifyingly beautiful man kneeling at my side.
Finally, he lifted his hand from my leg. The cleansing, for now, was complete. His eyes met mine, intense yet calmer, as though the ritual—the act of purging the night's violence from my body—had released a portion of the fury that had gripped him.
A single, weary sigh escaped my lips, but the fragile promise of relief dissolved before it could reach my chest. I stood motionless, my back drowning in the dim, amber haze of the room's lone light. Yet even the muted glow couldn't soften the sharp edges inside me. The silence should have been calming, but instead it only amplified the potent fury still tearing through my veins, refusing to settle, refusing to die.
The instant I saw you—
In the clutches of a stranger, hair tangled, clothes twisted, completely disheveled—
That image detonated something inside me.
You, who always smooth every wrinkle with trembling fingertips… who hates even a speck of dust landing on your sleeve… reduced to that state. It was wrong. Violently wrong. The kind of wrong that sears itself into a man's mind and festers.
My thoughts weren't thoughts at all; they were a battlefield.
A brutal clash between two halves of myself:
One side of me, a thin sliver of reason, whispering that I should not—must not—splatter someone's brains across the wall with you standing there, watching.
And the other side… instinct. Pure, murderous instinct screaming that the only fitting end for that bastard was agony. Something slow. Something that would make him understand what he'd dared to do. Something deserving.
The weight of the gun in my hand wasn't just metal. It was intention. It was violence simmering just beneath my skin. I could feel the exact moment when brutality almost won. One breath. One twitch of my finger. One more heartbeat and there would've been no turning back.
And then—
You said my name.
Just that.
Just your voice, trembling, breaking, desperate.
It shouldn't have had that much power, yet it hauled me violently back from the precipice. Like a hook dragged through my ribs, wrenching me away from crossing a line I could never uncross.
But the fury didn't fade.
Oh no… it only twisted.
Changed shape.
Changed target.
Because what boiled inside me now wasn't just wrath at him—
It was rage at myself.
A choking, bitter anguish that settled deep, because the truth is unbearable:
Victor is my brother.
My name—my existence—placed you in danger.
My world bled into yours, and you suffered for it.
And for the first time… I was forced to stare directly at what I am.
At the monster I've spent years controlling, feeding, unleashing only when necessary.
But never like this. Never at the cost of you.
I'm beginning to understand your pain.
Not abstractly… not distantly… but the kind that sits under your skin and refuses to leave.
Suddenly I see why you slept with a gun by your pillow even though everything in you hates weapons.
Suddenly I feel the weight of that night—
The way I pointed a gun at you…
And how you must have looked at me, not as someone you trusted, but as someone who could take everything from you in a single, merciless second.
And then came the final blow.
The moment you broke.
You, who always swallowed your tears in front of me.
You, who always held yourself together even when you were shaking inside.
You, who never let me see your weakest moments—
Until this.
When the sobs tore out of you, raw and helpless…
When your eyes filled with devastation, confusion, abandonment, terror—
It was in that moment that I finally saw it:
The true cost of my life.
My darkness.
My choices.
All of it carved into you.
And nothing—no punishment, no vengeance—could compare to the sight of you breaking because of the world I dragged you into.
I watched you slump down, your body finally surrendering to exhaustion and terror. Every motion was heavy, weighted with the invisible chains of shock and disbelief. The chaotic events that had unfolded—chaotic and unrelenting—pressed against me like a tidal wave, each memory of the struggle, each flash of violence, each flicker of fear in your eyes, washing over me in relentless succession. And I was consumed.
Consumed with self-reproach.
Consumed with the gnawing, bitter taste of self-loathing.
And yet… amidst the chaos, there was something achingly new. Your voice, broken, trembling, carried the weight of vulnerability I had never witnessed before. You called my name. For the first time.
It should have been a relief, a balm, yet it cut deeper than anything else that night. The sight of your tears—tears you'd always withheld in my presence, tears you had carefully hidden—was a dagger to my chest. My mind recoiled at the sick fascination I had once harbored: curiosity about what you'd look like when you cried. Now, seeing the reality, I was disgusted with myself. That longing to know had been selfish, cruel even.
The fear radiating from you was sharp, unrelenting. I knew all too well the fate awaiting those ensnared by Victor's crosshairs. Destruction so absolute that it left nothing behind. I had seen it. I had lived it in fragments through nightmares, through history, through every scar left on the people who had faced him.
And because you had been caught in his web… because it was my existence that had drawn him to you…
I was seized by a dread unlike anything I had felt before. The thought that you, the one who had always hated even the sound of my name, might carry that resentment to your final breath, alone and abandoned, haunted me. It was a terror that sank deep, threading through every muscle, every heartbeat, every shadowed corner of my mind.
That dread accompanied me relentlessly all the way to Hellin Town. Each mile was a pulse of anger. Angry at the world, angry at Victor, and—most piercingly—angry at myself. I had failed to protect you. I had failed to keep you safe from the chaos I had dragged you into.
I remember the way you looked at me, wide-eyed, still trembling from the shock and trauma. Your lips quivered, and in a fragile whisper you confessed,
"I screamed at you earlier because I was startled by the sound of gunshots and blood… and I was terrified at that moment."
I could only stare, the truth crashing into me. Even in your own pain, even amid your fear, you had felt the need to explain yourself to me. The thought struck me with a raw intensity: you carried concern for me, even when all your energy should have been focused on survival, on calming your own frayed nerves.
I gently squeezed your hand, letting my thumb brush over your knuckles. The touch was light, almost imperceptible, yet it carried more weight than any words could convey—a promise I wasn't ready to speak aloud, yet couldn't leave unexpressed.
"Let's go to the car," I murmured, my voice hoarse, strained from the tension that still lingered. The quiet of the moment was surreal, almost fragile, as if the world itself had paused to watch us. "If you're too dizzy to walk, I can carry—"
I paused, waiting. Waiting for your reply, for any sign of what you needed. All I wanted was to get you somewhere safe. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere that felt untouched by the shadows we'd just left behind.
Eiser pov
I looked at her, my mind still spinning with the fragile truth she had just shared. Every word, every inflection, carried a weight I hadn't anticipated.
"So… what I'm trying to say is…" Her voice was soft, almost hesitant, but underneath it was a quiet firmness, a resolve that demanded attention. She met my gaze directly, and for the first time in hours—or maybe days—I felt something fragile yet unbroken in her eyes.
"If I don't say this to you now, I don't think I'll ever be able to. But I wasn't angry with you."
The simplicity of her words struck me like a hammer to the chest. No pretense. No excuses. Just honesty. A moment of vulnerability laid bare. I had expected resentment, fear, or reproach, but not this.
I was speechless. My throat constricted as I swallowed, the only sound I could manage a quiet, almost inaudible:
"Thank you."
It was insufficient. Inadequate to the enormity of the relief swelling inside me, yet it was all I could offer.
I carried her to the car, each step measured and deliberate, careful not to jostle her fragile frame. Settling her into the seat, I draped my jacket over her shoulders. She looked both vulnerable and resilient at once—like porcelain reinforced with steel. Her eyes followed my every movement, silent acknowledgment passing between us, but she said nothing.
I slid into the driver's seat, the familiar weight of the steering wheel grounding me. With a roar, the engine came alive: VROOM! The sound cut sharply through the quiet of the night, a reminder that we were moving, leaving danger behind. My hands gripped the wheel tightly. I needed distance. I needed a haven, even if temporary.
The road stretched out ahead, a ribbon of shadow and silver moonlight. Soon, we reached a fork—a signpost indicating two diverging paths. My home, the place of routine and familiarity, lay clearly to the right. The path seemed comforting, predictable, safe.
SCREECH.
I spun the steering wheel, tires biting into the dirt with a violent grip as I swerved left, ignoring the signpost, veering sharply down the opposite path. My heart pounded, the rhythm synchronized with the pulse of adrenaline still lingering from the night's chaos.
She remained silent for a moment, then finally spoke, voice tinged with a faint tremor. Her eyes were fixed on the passing trees, the darkness beyond the window.
"We need to take the path on the right to get home," she said, soft but uncertain. "I'm sure I saw the signs, so why is he going the other way?"
I glanced at her briefly, catching the flash of confusion and concern. Then I returned my gaze to the road ahead.
I knew exactly where I was going.
My destination was no longer the familiar warmth of our home. This path led elsewhere—a place distant enough to let her breathe, to let her recover from the terror that clung to her like a second skin. A place where Victor's shadow, long and invasive, could not immediately reach. Even if it meant sacrificing the comfort of familiarity, even if it meant risking her temporary bewilderment, even if it demanded that I leave behind the fragile stability we had fought to preserve.
I need to drive now.
I need to keep moving.
I need to keep her safe.
I heard her question about the road, but I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
Words were a luxury I no longer had control over.
She observed me quietly, her gaze brushing over my profile before retreating—hesitant, uncertain. I could feel her thoughts circling me like a wary animal.
I have no idea what he's thinking.
She wasn't wrong. I hadn't said a single word since she'd thanked me, and the air inside the car was thick with tension. My jaw was clenched tight, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. I was driving hard, too hard, pushing the engine and the road to their limits, the tires humming with reckless intent.
And in the dim interior of the car, I knew the thought that lodged itself in her mind like a quiet alarm:
In fact, he doesn't seem to be in his right mind… I've never seen him like this before.
She saw correctly. I wasn't in my right mind—not entirely. My thoughts were fractured, shrapnel from the night's violence still embedded deep. But even in that fractured state, every decision, every instinct, every turn of the wheel was anchored in one thing: keeping her alive.
What she didn't realize was that I knew what she was thinking about herself, too. Her gaze drifted down, then away, her breath a trembling sigh.
And I must not be in my right mind either… seeing as how I'm docilely letting him take us wherever he pleases.
She was wrong. This wasn't docility.
This was exhaustion—bone-deep, soul-deep.
And more than that… this was implicit trust. A rare, fragile trust that she extended despite everything I'd put her through, despite the gun I once aimed at her, despite the blood and chaos still dried on both of us.
She closed her eyes, seeking rest in the rolling darkness of the car.
The way her lashes trembled told me she was hovering between sleep and collapse.
We're both mad.
The thought struck her, hung in the air, then settled like ash.
And she was right. This life—the violence, the shadows, the unending chase—was madness. The proximity to danger, the intimacy born from survival, the way fear intertwined with trust… it was a madness we both lived in without choice.
I continued driving, the headlights carving a narrow path through the empty road, illuminating nothing but isolation ahead.
And now… where are we headed?
She didn't ask it aloud, but her silence was loud enough.
I knew exactly where.
I knew because I had decided long ago—should the world ever collapse around me—I would retreat to the one place Victor didn't know existed.
A place I built years ago, hidden in the folds of the mountains, designed for crisis… or escape.
Our home—the beautiful, gilded prison she had learned to navigate—was no longer safe.
Not when Victor knew my patterns.
Not when he knew my routes.
Not when he knew my weaknesses.
Every person associated with me, every familiar wall, every predictable routine… all of them were compromised pieces on a chessboard Victor delighted in overturning.
So I steered us away from comfort.
Away from the known.
Away from the path she expected and toward the one I had carved in secret.
I am sacrificing familiarity for safety.
I am choosing isolation over exposure.
I won't lose her to Victor's vendetta.
Not after she finally said my name.
Not after she confessed she wasn't angry with me.
My silence is protection.
My unhinged appearance is focus.
I am taking us out of the map.