Page One

  The alley smelled like rust and rain.

  Tatiana Schmitz clutched her purse tighter, her heels clicking cautiously against the wet pavement. It was late—later than she liked to stay at the office—but the project deadline didn’t care about her need for sleep. She didn’t usually park in the back, but downtown construction had blocked her usual route, and she didn’t want to circle the block again.

  She regretted it the moment she turned the corner.

  There was movement in the alley. Slow. Uneven.

  At first, she thought it was a stray animal. Then she saw the outline of a man—leaning against the brick wall, one hand pressed to his side, the other clutching something black and slick with blood.

  Tatiana froze.

  He was slumped low, legs outstretched, breath shallow. His face was half in shadow, but even from a distance, she could see the tightness in his jaw and the sharp line of his cheekbones.

  He was trying to stay conscious.

  And losing.

  She should’ve turned around. Walked faster. Called someone. Anyone.

  But she didn’t.

  Instead, she took a cautious step closer, her voice soft and cautious. “Hey… are you—are you okay?”

  A stupid question. He was bleeding out.

  The man looked up slowly, and for the briefest second, their eyes met. His were dark—so dark they felt endless. But even through the pain, there was something clear in them.

  Surprise.

  Then wariness.

  “…Leave,” he rasped, voice low and hoarse.

  She didn’t.

  “I can help,” she said instead, lowering herself to his level. “I—I know some first aid.”

  He exhaled sharply, like it hurt to even laugh. “That won’t be enough.”

  Maybe not. But it was all she could offer—for now.

  Page two

  Tatiana didn’t give him the chance to argue again.

  She glanced around the alley—empty, thankfully—then back at the man bleeding on the ground. There wasn’t time to hesitate. He was already slipping, eyelids fluttering, lips pale.

  “Okay,” she whispered more to herself than him, heart racing. “Okay, we’re doing this.”

  She crouched beside him, careful not to jostle the wound. Up close, she could see the mess clearly—blood seeping through his shirt, pooling under his hand. A gunshot. Low, near the stomach.

  He was lucky it hadn’t gone higher. Maybe. Depending on what it hit.

  “I’m going to help you stand, alright? You have to work with me.”

  He didn’t respond, but he didn’t fight her either.

  Tatiana wrapped his arm around her shoulders, bracing herself as she heaved him upward. He was heavy, his body nearly limp against her, but somehow she got him to his feet. He staggered. She stumbled. Together, they made it to the edge of the alley, and then across the street to her car.

  By the time she got him inside, he was fading again.

  “I swear if you die in my passenger seat, I’m going to be so pissed,” she muttered, sliding in beside him and throwing the car into drive.

  Her apartment was small but clean, lived-in but cozy. Potted herbs lined the kitchen windowsill. A soft blue glow pulsed faintly from a salt lamp in the corner. It was the kind of space people rarely expected from her.

  She got him inside—barely—and onto the couch.

  Then she worked.

  The lab she’d grown up in hadn’t taught kindness. But it had taught survival. And part of survival meant knowing how to stitch skin, stop blood, and calm a panicked heartbeat—whether it was your own or someone else’s.

  She peeled off his jacket and shirt carefully, ignoring the tattoos that trailed across his chest and arms. Focus. Clean the wound. Stop the bleeding. Ignore how warm he was. How quiet.

  She was halfway through patching him up when his voice cut through the silence—rough and low.

  “You should’ve left me there.”

  Tatiana glanced up.

  He was watching her now. Bleary, but focused.

  She held his gaze. “Yeah. I thought about it.”

  A flicker of amusement sparked in his eyes.

  Then it was gone.

  Page three

  The first thing he noticed was the silence.

  The kind that felt too calm, too still. Like the eye of a storm.

  Damian’s eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the dim, early-morning light filtering through pale curtains. The ceiling above him wasn’t familiar. Neither was the couch beneath him. Or the blanket draped carefully over his chest.

  He moved to sit up—and immediately regretted it. Pain flared sharp in his abdomen.

  “Don’t.”

  The voice came from the kitchen.

  He turned his head.

  Tatiana stood there, barefoot, her sky-blue eyes locked on him over the rim of a chipped coffee mug. Her hair was a little messy. There was a faint smear of blood on her forearm. His blood.

  “You need to stay still or that wound’s going to open back up,” she said, setting the mug down and walking toward him. Calm. Unbothered. Like bringing half-dead men home was just another part of her week.

  Damian studied her. Not just her face—soft features, sharp mind behind those eyes—but the way she moved. Controlled. Like someone used to being underestimated.

  “How long was I out?” he asked, voice gravelly.

  “Almost a full day.”

  He nodded once. “You patched me up.”

  “Not my first time.” She knelt beside the couch and checked the bandages, her touch efficient and gentle. “And you owe me a new towel. Yours is—well, it’s dead.”

  His lips twitched. Just slightly. “Duly noted.”

  Tatiana paused, then met his gaze again. Her eyes were bright, striking even in the low light.

  “You gonna tell me what happened?” she asked. “Or do I get to make up a story about the bloody man in my living room?”

  Damian was quiet for a long moment.

  Then, slowly, he said, “Let’s go with your version. It’s probably more charming.”

  Page four

  Tatiana didn’t press him for more.

  She could’ve. Most people would’ve. But there was something in his voice—quiet, worn, edged with warning—that told her not to push.

  Instead, she gave a short nod and stood. “I made soup. It’s… nothing fancy, but it’s warm.”

  Damian watched her disappear into the kitchen.

  He still didn’t know her name.

  He should’ve asked. He should’ve done a lot of things, starting with not getting shot. But none of it mattered now. What mattered was that someone knew he was here. Someone had followed him. And whoever pulled the trigger hadn’t missed on accident—they wanted him to suffer first.

  Tatiana returned a moment later with a steaming bowl, a spoon, and a warning look.

  “I swear, if you bleed on my throw pillows…”

  He didn’t finish the smirk that threatened his face, but the tension in his shoulders eased just a little.

  She handed him the bowl carefully, then sat on the coffee table across from him, watching as he took the first bite. He didn’t speak, but the second bite came quicker than the first.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” she said softly.

  He hesitated.

  Then: “Damian.”

  She tilted her head slightly. “Just Damian?”

  “That’s all you need for now.”

  Something about the way he said it didn’t come off as threatening. Just matter-of-fact. Guarded.

  “I’m Tatiana,” she offered. “But most people call me Tati.”

  He glanced at her. “Tati.”

  The name sat strange in his mouth. Almost too soft for someone like him. But not unpleasant.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Tatiana gave him a half-smile. “Nice to meet you, Damian. You know—aside from the whole bleeding-on-my-sidewalk thing.”

  His jaw tightened just slightly. “That’s not going to happen again.”

  The air shifted. Not cold, but charged.

  Tatiana noticed the change instantly. The subtle edge in his voice. The steel in his stare. That was the part of him she hadn’t seen yet—not the bleeding man in the alley, but the one behind the reputation. The one who’d been hunted.

  He wasn’t just in trouble.

  He was dangerous.

  Page five

  Tatiana didn’t ask what he meant.

  She didn’t need to. The shift in his tone had already answered the question she hadn’t spoken.

  Whoever Damian was… whoever he ran from… he wasn’t just a man caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  He was the kind people came after.

  She stood slowly, collecting the empty bowl and walking it back into the kitchen. Her hands moved on autopilot—rinse, dry, stack—while her thoughts spun like loose thread unraveling.

  You brought a wanted man into your home.

  She glanced back at him through the narrow doorway.

  He hadn’t moved. He sat still on the couch, eyes closed now, but his body was taut beneath the blanket—like a predator resting, not relaxing.

  Tatiana leaned against the counter, pressing the heel of her palm to her chest.

  Her heart hadn’t stopped racing since she found him.

  Not from fear.

  Not entirely.

  From something else. Something she didn’t want to name.

  Curiosity, maybe. Or the ache of something forgotten. Of seeing someone who looked at the world the way she did—like it had taken too much already.

  She moved to her bathroom cabinet and pulled down the first aid kit again. There was something steadying about reorganizing it—restocking the gauze, replacing the antiseptic she’d used. It gave her something to do with her hands, with her nerves.

  “Why did you help me?”

  His voice broke the quiet again.

  She jumped slightly, not realizing he’d followed her gaze to the bathroom door.

  She met his eyes over her shoulder. Sky blue to dark brown.

  “…Because you were dying,” she said finally. “And I don’t let people die if I can help it.”

  There was a long pause.

  Then: “That’s going to get you killed someday.”

  Tatiana gave a soft, wry smile. “You’re not the first person to say that.”

  He didn’t smile back. Just watched her for a few seconds longer before turning away.

  But there was something in his expression now—something unreadable. Not quite gratitude. Not yet. But not indifference, either.

  She’d gotten under his skin.

  Even just a little.

  Page six

  Tatiana wasn’t sure how long Damian would stay.

  But by the third day, he hadn’t left.

  She let him rest. Didn’t ask questions. Tried not to stare too long when he leaned against her kitchen counter or moved through her living room like he didn’t take up all the space in it. But the weight of his presence hung heavy in the apartment—unspoken, unsettling, and somehow… comforting.

  It wasn’t until she got home from work that things started to shift again.

  She was halfway to her door when she noticed the man in the hallway.

  He stood casually beside her neighbor’s unit, pretending to check a phone that was clearly dead. Middle-aged, expensive coat, face like stone. He looked up as she passed, eyes flicking to her apartment door, then back to her.

  Tatiana didn’t speak.

  She unlocked her door, stepped inside, and closed it quickly behind her. Locked it. Bolted it. Took a breath.

  Damian was standing in the kitchen, shirtless again, gauze still taped to his side.

  “Something wrong?” he asked, voice low.

  Tatiana nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  She stepped closer. “There was a man outside. Staring. Watching the apartment.”

  Damian’s expression didn’t change, but she saw the way his shoulders tensed. The subtle way his fingers flexed at his sides. The calm was still there—but now, it had teeth.

  “Describe him.”

  She did. Quick and precise.

  Damian swore under his breath. A sound that didn’t match his otherwise quiet demeanor.

  “Let me guess,” she said. “Not a friend?”

  His eyes met hers—dark, unreadable. “He’s a scout. They’re sniffing around, trying to find out where I went.”

  Tatiana folded her arms, pulse rising. “So they’re close.”

  He nodded once.

  “How dangerous are they?”

  Another beat of silence. Then: “You don’t want to know.”

  She should’ve been afraid.

  But somehow, the fear didn’t settle in her chest. It wasn’t like before—being trapped, used, experimented on. This fear had edges, but it didn’t own her.

  Tatiana exhaled slowly. “Okay. So… what now?”

  Damian looked at her, really looked at her, and for a moment something like guilt flickered in his eyes. Barely there. Almost masked.

  “You shouldn’t be involved.”

  “I already am,” she said softly. “That choice was made the second I pulled you off that alley floor.”

  Page seven

  Night fell quietly.

  Tatiana stood by the window, watching the streetlights flicker on one by one. Her apartment was still. Too still. She could feel Damian behind her even before he spoke.

  “You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

  His voice was quiet, low enough that it didn’t feel like it belonged to a man with blood on his hands. She turned slightly, catching his reflection in the glass—leaning against the wall behind her, arms crossed, shadows catching in the sharp lines of his face.

  “I’ve dealt with worse,” she said, her voice just as soft.

  He studied her for a moment. “You say that like it’s something to be proud of.”

  “I say that because it’s the truth.”

  The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just heavy.

  Tatiana turned fully to face him. The light from the street cut across her features, painting her skin in soft gold and her sky-blue eyes in firelight. Damian’s gaze lingered on her face, and then slowly, on the curve of her ear—where the fins shimmered slightly in the light.

  “You’re not… normal,” he said carefully. Not unkindly. Just fact.

  Tatiana smiled, a little bitter. “That’s one way to put it.”

  He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t press. That surprised her more than anything.

  “You’re not scared?” she asked.

  “No,” he said simply. “You didn’t flinch when I told you someone was hunting me. It would be stupid of me to flinch at something that’s never hurt me.”

  Her breath caught a little at that.

  The way he said it—like it wasn’t just logic. Like it was something… deeper.

  Damian stepped toward her then. Just a step. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back slightly to meet his eyes. Dark brown. Intense. They held a weight she wasn’t used to bearing.

  “You don’t owe me anything,” he murmured.

  “I know.”

  “You could still tell me to leave.”

  “I know that too.”

  Another pause. This one felt heavier.

  Tatiana didn’t move. Neither did he.

  For a long moment, it was just breath and silence between them—until finally, she said, “I don’t want you to go.”

  And something in Damian—quiet, brutal Damian—cracked just a little at the edges.

  Page eight

  Tatiana didn’t sleep that night.

  Not really.

  She dozed in waves—drifting off on the couch, waking to every creak of the building, every soft shift of wind against her windows. Damian had taken the armchair across from her. He said it was so she could have space, but Tati knew better.

  He hadn’t wanted to be too far if something happened.

  At 3:47 a.m., something did.

  A sharp knock rattled the apartment door. Not the nervous tap of a neighbor. Not a delivery. Three fast, deliberate hits.

  Then silence.

  Tatiana’s eyes shot open. She met Damian’s instantly.

  He was already on his feet.

  She moved slowly, carefully, backing toward the hallway while Damian crossed to the front window and shifted the curtain just an inch.

  One glance. That’s all it took.

  He turned sharply. “Go to the bedroom. Now.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Two men. Armed.”

  Tatiana’s blood ran cold. “Did they see you?”

  “I don’t think so. But they’re watching the door.”

  Her mind raced. “I don’t have weapons. No gun, no—”

  “I do.” Damian’s voice was steady, calm, but his eyes were already dark with calculation. “If they try to break in, I’ll handle it. You just stay quiet.”

  She wanted to argue.

  Wanted to fight alongside him.

  But she wasn’t stupid. Not right now. Not when lives were on the line.

  Tatiana disappeared into the bedroom, heart hammering, and closed the door just enough to watch through the crack.

  Another knock. Louder this time.

  And then, a voice—smooth, laced with fake charm.

  “Mr. Adler. We know you’re in there. Why don’t we have a little chat?”

  Tatiana saw Damian’s jaw tighten as he raised the gun from his bag and cocked it quietly.

  “No answer?” the voice called again. “That’s rude.”

  And then—bang.

  The door jolted in its frame, wood cracking slightly under the force.

  Tatiana gasped, hand flying to her mouth.

  Damian didn’t flinch.

  He took one step forward, gun raised, expression unreadable.

  And for the first time since she met him… Tatiana saw the killer behind the calm.

  Page nine

  The second bang came harder.

  Wood splintered. The lock cracked.

  Tatiana braced against the doorframe, barely breathing. Damian stood still as stone, gun raised, steps from the entrance. His face was unreadable—cold, controlled, almost inhuman in its calm.

  And then the third strike—

  The door burst open.

  Two men rushed inside, guns drawn, shouting something she couldn’t understand. But Damian didn’t hesitate. He didn’t give them the chance to speak again.

  Pop—pop.

  Two clean shots. Center mass.

  One dropped immediately.

  The second stumbled, fired blindly. A bullet tore through the side of the couch, lodging in the far wall.

  Tatiana ducked instinctively, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

  Pop.

  Damian’s last shot was merciless—one to the head.

  Silence followed.

  It wasn’t the kind of silence that brought peace. It was suffocating. A silence thick with smoke, adrenaline, and death.

  Tatiana stepped out from the bedroom slowly. Her eyes swept the scene: the bodies, the blood, the shattered remains of her front door hanging crooked on the hinges.

  And Damian.

  Still standing.

  Still calm.

  His hands didn’t shake. His breathing was even. But his eyes—those dark eyes—met hers with something unreadable behind them.

  She didn’t speak.

  She couldn’t.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, voice low.

  She shook her head.

  “I told you,” he said quietly, stepping past the bodies. “Being around me is dangerous.”

  Tatiana didn’t answer. She just walked slowly to the couch and sank down, her legs finally giving out beneath her.

  Damian turned away, holstering his weapon with mechanical precision, like it was just another task in his day. Like this—violence, death, blood—was normal.

  She watched him in silence.

  And for the first time since she pulled him out of that alley, Tatiana realized—

  She hadn’t saved a man.

  She’d brought home a storm.

  Page ten

  Tatiana sat on the couch for what felt like hours. The bodies remained where they’d fallen. She didn’t have the strength to look at them anymore.

  Damian was already moving.

  He’d dragged the rug out of the way, pulled a burner phone from his bag, and made a quiet call in a language she didn’t recognize. His voice was low, clipped, fast.

  When he hung up, he turned to her.

  “They’ll be cleaned up within the hour. You won’t have to lift a finger.”

  Tatiana blinked. “You… have people for this?”

  He gave a small nod. “Yes.”

  “Of course you do.”

  She leaned back, staring at the ceiling, heart still pounding in her chest. “I think I just watched two people die in my living room.”

  “You did.”

  “And I’m… weirdly not screaming.”

  Damian looked at her for a long moment, then said quietly, “You’re stronger than you think.”

  She huffed a small, humorless laugh. “Either that or I’m just too tired to fall apart.”

  He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he walked over to the couch and sat—close, but not touching. Like he didn’t want to break whatever delicate line had just been drawn between them.

  “I’ll leave after this is handled. I’ve brought enough chaos to your doorstep.”

  Tatiana turned her head to look at him. His face was still—stoic, unreadable—but there was something softer in his voice now. Something hesitant.

  She didn’t speak for a long moment.

  And then: “If they’re still coming after you… where will you even go?”

  Damian met her gaze. “I have places. Safe houses. Allies.”

  “And enemies?”

  “Plenty.”

  She exhaled slowly. “Then maybe you shouldn’t go alone.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly. “You don’t owe me anything, Tatiana.”

  “I know. But I’m not letting you bleed out in an alley again either.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  Tatiana sat up, holding his gaze, even as her heart beat faster.

  “Stay,” she said finally. “Until this blows over.”

  Damian looked at her like she was a puzzle he didn’t know how to solve.

  But then—slowly—he nodded.

  And in that moment, something shifted.

  A man who didn’t trust anyone, and a woman who didn’t flinch at monsters.

  Two people who should’ve passed like strangers in the night.

  But fate had other plans.

  End of Chapter 1