Chapter 2

Aurelia's POV

It was Elijah.

"Hi," I stammered. "Sorry, this is Aurelia."

He didn't respond right away. The silence stretched, making my stomach twist.

"Sidney's not here." His tone was flat, like he was reading the weather forecast.

I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. "Do you know when he'll be back?"

"No."

I sighed. "Okay. Thanks."

I was about to hang up when his voice cut back in, edged with impatience.

"What's wrong?"

I hesitated for half a second. I could lie, say it was nothing, that I'd handle it myself. But something in his tone stopped me—gruff, yes, but underneath it was something I couldn't quite name. Concern, maybe.

"It's nothing," I said quickly. "Sorry to bother you."

"Aurelia." His voice hardened. "What's wrong?"

I shifted my weight from foot to foot. The cold wind cut through my thin jacket, and the sweat that hadn't dried yet turned clammy against my skin.

"The competition ran longer than I thought," I blurted out. "I missed the last bus, and there aren't any rideshares nearby. It's fine. I'll just walk back."

The line went quiet for a long moment.

"Where are you?" His voice dropped, sharp as an interrogation.

"None of your business."

"You didn't plan?"

That was the line that lit the fuse. Heat flared in my chest, hotter than the cold wind biting at my skin.

"I'm hanging up." I bit out the words and jabbed the end-call button hard enough to hurt my knuckles, shoving the phone back into my pocket.

Asshole. Judgmental, high-and-mighty asshole.

I dropped onto the cold metal bench at the bus stop, pressing my forehead to my knees and forcing myself to breathe. I tried the rideshare app again. Same message: No drivers available in your area.

I pulled out my phone and texted Sidney: Competition's over! Call me when you can.

The screen stayed quiet.

The streetlights flickered on one by one. The sky bled from warm gold into deep blue-gray.

I stood, hitched my bag higher on my shoulder, and started walking toward downtown.

I kept my head down and walked for about ten minutes, the final beats of my routine still looping in my head, my canvas sneakers the only sound against the pavement.

So I didn't notice the car pulling up behind me.

The engine's low rumble cut through the quiet. The sound of the window rolling down was impossibly loud on the empty street.

"Aurelia."

I jumped a foot in the air, yelping as I spun around, hands flying to my chest.

Elijah.

He sat in the driver's seat, one hand draped over the steering wheel. His dark hoodie was unzipped halfway, exposing the hollow of his collarbone and a faint scar below it—pale and clean, like something sharp had carved it into his skin.

His forearm rested on the window frame, muscles taut under the streetlight. Every line was defined, lived-in. Used.

He wasn't gym-fit.

He was the kind of strong that told you this man had fought, carried weight, crawled through mud and bullets, and come out the other side.

"Get in." His tone left no room for negotiation.

My heart was still hammering, but my brain had already gone cold. "How did you find me?"

He raised an eyebrow, like he was looking at a kid who'd asked a dumb question.

I pressed my lips together. "Right. Special Forces."

There were only a few rinks in the city big enough to host a competition with hundreds of skaters. Finding me wouldn't have been hard for him.

"Get in," he repeated.

I straightened my shoulders. "No."

He froze. For the first time, genuine surprise flickered across that sharp, chiseled face. His jaw was hard, shadowed with dark stubble. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again, like he was recalculating.

I turned and started walking.

Behind me, the engine rumbled again. He pulled the car up alongside me.

"Aurelia, get in." He leaned over the seat, his voice tight. He was too big for the driver's seat, his broad shoulders filling the entire space.

I kept walking.

"I'm asking one more time," he bit out. "If you don't get in, I'm leaving."

I didn't turn around.

The engine roared. Tires screeched against the pavement. The headlights carved an angry streak through the darkness, and then they were gone.

Fine. He actually left.

I picked up my pace, cutting down the sidewalk and across a patch of uneven, empty ground. The streetlights thinned out here. Shadows pooled everywhere.

I walked for about two minutes.

Then I heard laughter.

Not the good kind. The kind that turned your stomach cold—soaked in alcohol and malice.

Three men closed in from different directions. One from the left. One from the right. One from behind.

My feet stopped.

"Please don't," I heard myself say. My voice was thin and shaking.

One of them grabbed my arm. His fingers dug in tight, his fingertips tracing slow circles through my sleeve. Another one snatched my bag, grinning. The third pressed in from behind, his breath hot against the back of my neck.

"What are you so scared of?" a voice murmured near my ear. "Out here alone in the middle of the night—what'd you expect?"

My lips were trembling. Tears burned at the edges of my eyes.

Then someone appeared.

Not walking. Not jogging.

Three strides, and he was in front of me, using his entire body to build a wall between them and me.

Elijah.

He stood with his back to me. Wide enough to block my entire view. His shoulders were iron-hard beneath the dark hoodie, his spine straight as a blade. A barrier with no gaps.

He didn't say anything. Just cracked his knuckles, the sound sharp and clear. His hands were big, knuckles scarred, the kind of hands that had seen real work.

"I'm giving you one chance." His voice was low, like it came from underground.

The man gripping my arm sneered and tightened his hold. Pain shot through me, and I flinched.