"Step away from her," he said, his voice carrying through the silence like a command.
No one moved.
He didn't raise his voice. "Now."
The neighbor looked at him, then at the man on the ground, then back at me—bloodied, shaking, alive.
Fear finally crossed his face.
Hands went up.
I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.
All I could do was stare at Aiden—at the man who had arrived exactly when I thought I wouldn't survive another second—and realize, with terrifying clarity, that something far darker than this night stood behind him.
Aiden stepped out of the SUV slowly, deliberately. He didn't rush. He didn't scan the room in panic. He shut the car door with a soft, controlled click, the gun still loose in his hand as if it were nothing more than an accessory.
The neighbor's face twisted as recognition slowly dawned.
"Wait…" he muttered, squinting. "You are—"
Then he laughed.
A loud, ugly sound that scraped against my nerves.
"So that's it?" he said, pointing at me with a shaking finger. "Look at her. Look at this girl. Seducing rich men now, huh? Flaunting that young body, climbing beds. No wonder you think you can threaten us."
My stomach churned, but before I could speak, Aiden's expression changed.
The calm cracked.
He took one step forward.
"Your wife does that more often," Aiden said coolly, lifting the gun slightly, "whenever she gets the chance—through your locked door."
The laughter died instantly.
The neighbor's mouth opened, then closed. His face drained of color.
Aiden raised the gun fully this time, aiming straight at him. The room felt like it stopped breathing.
"No," my mother said sharply, stepping forward despite everything. "No murder in this house."
Her voice shook—but it was firm.Aiden didn't look at her right away. For a second, I thought he wouldn't listen. His finger hovered too close to the trigger, his jaw tight, eyes dark and merciless.
Then—slowly—he lowered the gun.
Not because of them.
Because of her.
"Take him to the hospital," Aiden said, his voice steady again, dangerous in its calm. "And when they ask who shot him—tell the truth."
The men exchanged glances. One of them clenched his jaw.
They were angry.
Their eyes slid to me—burning, venomous, promising this wasn't over.
I felt my lips curve upward before I could stop myself.
A small, sharp smirk.
I didn't want to admit it—not to them, not to myself—but I was alive because of him. And right now, survival mattered more than pride.
They hauled the bleeding man up, his body limp between them, curses spilling from his mouth as they dragged him toward the door. One of them shoved past me deliberately, shoulder brushing mine hard, as if trying to remind me this wasn't a victory.
Then they were gone.
The house fell into a heavy, broken silence.
Blood stained the floor.
My hands were still shaking.
Aiden finally turned to me.
His gaze softened just a fraction—but not enough to feel safe.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
I swallowed, my throat tight. "No. I think… I think I'm fine."
My mother looked between us, her face pale, eyes full of questions she didn't ask.
Aiden slipped the gun back into his jacket like the moment had been nothing more than an inconvenience.
"They won't come back again."
I nodded.
But as I watched him stand there—calm, controlled, powerful—I knew something had shifted.
He hadn't just saved me.
He had reminded me exactly who he was.
And I didn't know whether that realization terrified me more…
or made me feel dangerously protected.
_______
Our 7th date:
At the nearest zoo:
After a long stroll,the crowd thickened suddenly, people pressing closer to the enclosure, children lifted onto shoulders, phones raised high. Something moved behind the glass—sleek, black, powerful—but I couldn't get a clear view no matter how much I leaned.
"I can't see," I muttered, rising on my toes.
"It's right there," Aiden said behind me. "Just above the rock."
I tried again, stretching a little more, my neck starting to ache. "Everyone's blocking—"
Before I finished, his hands came to my waist.
Not gripping.
Not pulling.
Just steadying me.
Then he lifted me.
The movement was smooth, effortless. The world tilted upward, and suddenly I was above the crowd, my line of sight clear. I could see it now—the black panther pacing slowly, muscles shifting beneath its skin, eyes sharp and intelligent.
But my focus snapped back instantly.
Because his hands… shifted.
Not touching me improperly—but inching higher than before. Slowly. Deliberately. Just enough that I felt the change. Just enough that my body reacted before my mind could.
My breath stalled.
My muscles locked.
I froze.
"Aiden," I said, my voice tight. "Put me down."
He didn't hesitate. He lowered me immediately, setting me back on my feet as if nothing strange had happened at all.
I stepped away fast, heat flooding my face, my heart hammering.
"What was that?" I demanded. "Why did you—"
"Why did I what?" he asked, genuinely calm, brows lifting. "You wanted to see. I helped."
"That's not—" I stopped mid-sentence.
The words jammed in my throat.
I couldn't say it.
I couldn't bring myself to explain where his hands had moved, or why it had made my skin crawl, not with people around, not out loud. The shame of even thinking it made my face burn hotter.
I clenched my fists. "You know exactly what you were doing."
He tilted his head slightly, studying me. "I lifted you. I didn't touch you. I put you down when you asked." His lips curved faintly. "So why are you angry?"
I swallowed hard, my voice dropping. "Because you were… because you moved your hands."
"Moved," he repeated softly. "That's all?"
My silence answered for me.
Something flickered in his eyes—recognition. Satisfaction.
"Oh," he said quietly. "That."
I was blushing with goosebumps spread across My skin.If he weren't serial killer....
My stomach twisted thinking about that.
He noticed it.
Of course he did.
His gaze dropped—not boldly, not obviously—but just enough to catch the way my arms had broken out in goosebumps, the way heat had crept up my neck and settled in my cheeks. I hated how visible it all was, how my body betrayed what my mouth refused to admit.
"So," he said calmly, almost lazily, "when are you planning to surrender to me?"
The word hit harder than it should have.
Surrender.
My breath caught, but I didn't answer. I couldn't. Not out loud.
Inside, my thoughts spiraled.
I don't know.
That was the truth I kept circling around, the one I never let reach my lips. I wasn't planning anything. I wasn't brave enough to run, and I wasn't foolish enough to step forward either. I was hovering in that fragile space in between, stretching time thinner and thinner, hoping it wouldn't snap.
I'm just delaying.
Delaying the moment he loses patience.
Delaying the moment I give in.
Delaying the moment I find out what happens when someone like him finally decides he's waited long enough.
I kept my face neutral, but inside, fear pressed against my ribs.
You're not normal, I thought, staring at the ground. You're a serial killer. A psychopath. Someone who can smile one second and pull a trigger the next.
I had seen it. I knew it.
And yet—my chest tightened painfully—I also knew he had been patient. Unnaturally so. No force. No threats. Just waiting. Watching. Letting me come to him again and again like it was my own choice.
That scared me more than violence ever could.
Because if I surrendered…
I didn't know if I'd survive it.
And if I kept refusing…
I didn't know if I'd survive that either.
"When I'll get more comfortable," I said finally, my voice quiet, controlled. "I didn't say I would not."
A faint smile tugged at his lips, not angry, not amused—knowing.
"Let's see," he replied softly.
My stomach twisted.
How long can I keep this up?
And what happens when delaying stops being an option?
I walked a step away from him, needing space, air, distance from the gravity he seemed to pull me into without ever laying a hand on me.
Behind me, I felt his gaze like a promise.
Or a warning.
I wasn't sure which terrified me more.