Alya
"Tell me clearly," I said, my voice steadier than it had any right to be, "What use have you got from me?"
Just keep your spine straight. Keep your eyes up. Don't let the world tilt. Don't let your knees give out. Please don't faint again. This body of mine, this betrayal of a vessel. It refused to hold me up when I needed it the most. The room tilted slightly, then stilled again, like it was teasing me, daring me to let go.
This was getting bothersome. Infuriating. What a word for it.
But beneath that tired sarcasm was something else, darker and heavier: a promise to myself. The next time I wake up in some strange place, unsure who had hands on my fate—I want it to be because I chose it. First thing I do when I'm out of this man's shadow is check myself into a hospital, and not because I'm weak, but because I'm human. And this body, this body is screaming at me that it's failing. I've never fainted this much in my entire life. Something's wrong. Something inside me is unraveling. And I'd rather die than let him use whatever's left of me for his own end. If he kills me, fine. At least that'll be the last time someone puts their hands on me without asking. At least it'll be over.
But he better be damn sure he gets what he wants before I go. Because I'm not going quietly.
I met his eyes again.
"If you're going to kill me, get on with it. If not, get the fuck out of my way."
"I don't know," he finally said, voice casual, dry as dust. "Haven't figured out if you're a liability or a really inconvenient asset yet. Either way, you're here. So…congratulations."
I stared at him. Congratulations.
God, I hated him.
"I'll make it easy for you," I muttered. "I'm not your anything. I'm not leverage. I'm not bait. I'm not your broken toy to patch up and play with later."
His smirk deepened, like he was impressed I could still bark when barely able to stand. Curiosity. Like he'd just watched a dying animal bare its teeth and thought, hm, maybe it's got some fight left after all.
He raised an eyebrow. "Mm. Could've fooled me, the way you keep falling apart in front of me."
"Fuck you."
"You're not very good at gratitude, are you?" he asked. "I drag your half-dead body out of a slaughterhouse, and this is what I get? Scowling and dramatic declarations?"
I laughed. "You think dragging someone out of a fire makes you a hero?"
He rolled his eyes and pushed off the doorframe with a little sigh, like I was a particularly annoying chore he couldn't put off any longer. Fuck this. The moment his weight lifted off the doorframe, I let my gaze drop to the splintered shape among the scattered debris on the floor: one jagged shard of porcelain from the vase I'd shattered moments ago.
It was long enough. Sharp enough. I crouched, as casually as someone trembling on the verge of collapse could manage, and closed my fingers around the piece. It bit into my palm immediately, the edge pressing a thin, stinging line into my skin — and good. It made things clearer. More solid. Pain always did.
The room tilted again as I stood, slower this time, blood singing in my ears like some cruel lullaby. My stomach churned, my head swam.
He had his back to me, halfway through some muttered, irritated complaint, probably about my attitude. He was always talking, wasn't he? Always filling the air with that smug, dry-as-bone voice like none of this mattered to him. Like anything mattered.
And I was so goddamn tired.
I lifted the shard, felt its weight, insignificant, but in my hands, it might as well have been a sword. I raised it to my throat, pressing the tip just beneath my jaw, right where the skin was thinnest. The sting was immediate, a bead of warmth slicking down my neck.
Both of them stiffened. I saw the shift in his posture, the sudden precision of his muscles as his head tilted fractionally to the side.
"Cute," he muttered, voice flat, but the sarcasm didn't land the same way this time, his steps flattering. "What is this supposed to imply exactly?"
My chest rose and fell, every breath feeling like it might be my last, but I met his gaze when he finally turned.
"I'm not yours," I said, and my voice didn't crack. "Not your asset. Not your liability. Not your anything. If you want me breathing, it'll be because I decide to keep breathing. And if you don't, well —" I pressed the shard a little harder against my skin. A bead of warmth bloomed beneath it. "I'll save you the trouble."
For the first time since this started, his expression cracked. It wasn't fear. James Carrizo didn't seem like a man who bothered with fear. But something else flickered there — a tension, a flash of teeth behind that smirk, a stormcloud shadow in his gaze. I saw it. And it gave me just enough courage to take a breath. I meant to hold it there. Meant to give him a chance to decide if I was worth the risk. But the second I shifted my grip, intending to move the shard just a fraction more—
I barely registered the blur of movement before the ground caught me hard, the weight of him crashing into mine as he drove me down, his iron grip locking around my wrist. The shard clattered uselessly to the floor, forgotten. Fire shot up my arm from the pressure of his grip. His body was heat and unyielding muscle against mine, a suffocating press that should've left me cold — but it didn't. It scorched. It thrummed, some alien, electric thing racing under my skin like a live wire.
I glared up at him, chest heaving, hair a mess in my face, and saw it reflected back, that same wildfire spark. His gaze pinned mine, the full weight of him settling over me like gravity itself, and for one disorienting second I forgot how to breathe.
His hand stayed wrapped tight around my wrist, and his other braced against the floor beside my head.
"You really are fucking relentless," he muttered, voice lower now, something rawer scraping beneath the words.
Good. Because if he thought for a second that I was something he could bend, something he could shatter and piece back together for his convenience, then he was about to learn what happened when you tried to chain a storm. I'd rather burn it all down.
"You'd rather bleed out on my floor than figure out what this is."
I didn't answer. Couldn't, for a second. The pulse in my ears was deafening. My throat felt scorched. Every nerve screamed beneath the bruising grip on my wrist, beneath the searing press of his body. It wasn't the fear I expected. It was fire. It was alive.
"You don't get to die on my time," he said, voice low, rough like gravel and smoke. "Not until I say so."
And I finally spoke, spat the words back like a curse.
"Then you'd better fucking kill me now, because I'm done playing pet corpse for you."
Without breaking my gaze, James spoke, voice cool but edged like a serrated blade.
"Fleory. Get out."
A beat.
"Jam—"
"I said out."
Fleory's shadow slipped from the room, the door closing with a soft, final click. And then it was just us. The silence in the aftermath was sharp, jagged. I didn't move. Neither did he.
"Let me go, James."
The name cracked between us like a struck match. His jaw tightened. His grip on my wrist flexed, a small, sharp warning, and the air between us thickened, electric and hot as blood.
"I told you," he said, voice pitched low enough it was barely a sound, a scrape of something feral beneath the words, "not to say my name like that."
Like what? Like it meant something?
I almost said it again, just to watch the crack widen, just to feel that wildfire rush up my throat and burn him with it. But the look in his eyes stopped me. Like he wasn't sure if he wanted to drag me closer or put a bullet between my ribs. And that realisation might as well have been a bullet between my ribs. What the fuck am I thinking? I didn't want another complication in what little remained of my life. No more snarled threads, no more staring down the barrel of someone else's chaos like it was anything but lethal. I wanted out. I wanted gone. From Siege. From him. From the wreckage I kept waking up in. From everything. I swallowed hard, forcing the words past the knot in my throat.
"Then let me go."
It came out rougher than I intended, raw around the edges, like it had clawed its way up from somewhere deeper than my lungs.
"No."
I felt something sharp and hot rise in my throat, frustration crackling down my spine.
I wanted out.
"I said let me go," I snarled, twisting my wrist against his hold, my other hand shoving at his shoulder.
His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering sharp at the hinge, and for the first time his voice frayed at the edges.
"Stop."
Low. Rough. Not as steady as before.
The air between us pulled tight, thick as smoke in my throat, suffocating in a way that had nothing to do with weight or wounds. I could feel his pulse through the skin of his palm. My own heart pounding back against it like a drum calling for war. His eyes locked onto mine, and the air between us tightened, thick enough to drown in.
I could feel his pulse in his grip. My own heart pounding back at it.
"I don't answer to you," I spat, twisting under him, ignoring the sting in my wrist, the burn in my lungs. "I don't belong to you."
His eyes flicked over my face, trying to understand something. Searching.
"Can't you untangle yourself from me?" he asked, voice quieter now. Almost… confused.
"What?"
"Untangle yourself from me," he repeated, his grip tightening like he was testing something. Waiting.
What the hell is he on about? His eyes scanned my body like a puzzle he couldn't solve, but refused to leave unsolved.
"I don't have time for this," I snapped.
"Well, I do." He growled.
His knee pushes apart my legs, my breath catching, putting in between with ease as if we've done this multiple times. Like he already knew how I'd move.
"Now," he murmured, eyes locked to mine, "try."
Something inside me stuttered. Misfired. Like my body remembered something my mind refused to name.
"I said try," he repeated, quieter this time.
I shoved hard, twisting beneath him with every ounce of fury in my body, my knee coming up fast toward his side, but he caught it, his hand snapping to my thigh gripping it firmly.
"You're not trying," he said through gritted teeth.
I snarled. "You want a fight?"
"Give me one."
I drove my elbow toward his jaw. A solid crack of contact. He hissed through his teeth, but didn't let go. If anything, he gripped tighter.
"Good," he growled.
I thrashed, my nails scraping his forearm, and he flinched, enough for me to twist my wrist free. But before I could scramble away, he surged forward, catching me again, his weight pressing me down. My front hit the floor with a thud, air knocking from my lungs.
"Nails? Seriously. Again."
His voice was a rasp against my ear, somewhere between annoyed and amused.
"Sorry," I panted, "next time I'll aim for your eyes."
I slammed my head backward, catching the side of his temple. He cursed, rocked back just enough for me to roll, dragging us both sideways. We hit the ground hard, a mess of limbs and labored breath, the fight more instinct than thought now. I clawed for space, for air, for leverage, anything. He grabbed my arm, yanked it behind my back, twisting me against him with maddening ease.
"God, you're stubborn," he growled into my neck.
"And you're in my way."
I pushed back, elbowing the side of his ribs, fully aware of the injury. He grunted, faltered, and I wrench out of the hold and finally face him head-on.
We froze.
Chest to chest. Breath to breath. Eyes locked.
He looked… wild. Raw. The control he always wore like armor was unraveling at the seams. His lip was split, a smear of blood painting the corner of his mouth. My shoulder throbbed. My lungs burned.
And then he moved, flipping us with sudden force until he was the one beneath me, arms out in mock surrender.
"Come on," he said, voice low, taunting. "Try again."
The shift left me breathless, not just from the motion, but the sudden change in power. His back against the floor, me straddling his hips, my hands braced against his chest. I could feel his heart pounding beneath my palms. Fast. Too fast. I scramble to my feet, moving away from him. As far as I could. Familiar. He's acting familiar with me. The way his voice dropped like we'd danced this dance a hundred times. The way his hands had found my skin like they'd mapped it before. The way he let me strike him without striking back like he expected it. As if he understood it.
Something twisted inside me. A sick pull low in my gut, like I was standing on the edge of a memory that wouldn't let itself be seen. I pressed a hand to my head, fingers trembling against my temple like I could shake the truth loose.
What is this? What is this feeling?
"Stop," I whispered to myself, forcing the thoughts away, trying to silence the growing ache.
But his voice cut through, pulling me back into the moment.
"Until you learn how to untangle yourself from me, you're not leaving," he said, his tone dripping with that same sarcastic edge, like a mask he wore so well.
"I don't belong to you," I finally choked out, though the words felt like they were hollow this time.
"No, you don't." he replies with that same smile he gave me when we met.
He moves to the door, opening the door, closing it just as I hear him mutter.
"But you sure as hell keep coming back."