Chapter 3

Aurelia's POV

Elijah's body moved instantly. So fast my eyes couldn't track it. He grabbed the guy's wrist and twisted it backward—the sound of bone popping out of place made my stomach lurch.

The second guy lunged at him. Elijah sidestepped and drove a fist into his gut. The man folded in half and hit the ground. The third guy hesitated too long. Elijah shoved him against the wall, pinning him there, toes barely touching the pavement.

Less than ten seconds. All three of them were down.

He wasn't even breathing hard.

They scrambled to their feet and ran, curses fading into the darkness.

Elijah turned around.

I was slumped against the wall, shaking so hard my teeth were chattering, tears streaming down my face.

He looked down at me. He was more than a head taller than me, and now he stood close—close enough that I could smell him. Clean soap, and beneath it something deeper, something distinctly his. Like cold iron and pine.

His expression wasn't gentle.

It was furious.

"What the hell were you thinking?" His voice came out rough and sharp. "You could've been hurt."

He slammed one hand against the wall above my head, palm flat against the brick. His arm stretched over me, forearm muscles taut, veins standing out. The impact echoed through the alley.

I flinched but didn't back away.

"You're too stubborn," he said through gritted teeth. "You think you're bulletproof?"

I looked up at him. His face was half-lit by the streetlight, jawline so tight it looked ready to snap. There was a faint old scar above his left eyebrow. His breathing was heavy, chest rising and falling, the athletic shirt stretched so tight across his torso that every muscle was visible.

He looked like he could tear the whole alley apart.

But all he did was punch the wall. He didn't touch me.

"You can't treat your safety like a joke." His voice dropped lower, each word deliberate.

"I'm sorry." My voice cracked.

His expression shifted. It was subtle—if I hadn't been this close, I wouldn't have noticed. The furrow between his brows eased slightly. The hard line of his mouth softened. And in his eyes, beneath that fierce anger, something else flickered.

He exhaled heavily. "Let's go."

He turned toward the alley entrance. I followed, stumbling, my bag sliding off my shoulder. He glanced back, then quickly stepped forward to steady my elbow.

The moment his fingers touched my arm, I winced.

He looked down. Then froze completely.

There was a purple-blue bruise on my arm. Finger-shaped marks. The color was already deepening, stark against my pale skin.

Elijah's face went dark. He released my arm and turned back toward where they'd fled. His stride was heavy and fast, shoulders rigid, fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white. The aura radiating from him made my instincts scream danger.

I rushed forward and grabbed his forearm. It was hard as iron—I couldn't even wrap both hands around it. But I pulled back with everything I had.

"Elijah." My voice shook. "Don't leave me."

He stopped.

Slowly turned around. Looked down at me.

I gripped his arm with both hands like it was the last lifeline I had. My hands looked absurdly small against his arm, fingers unable to close around it.

He stared at me for a long time.

The murderous intent in his eyes slowly receded, like a tide pulling back layer by layer, revealing what lay beneath. His gaze moved from my fingers clutching his arm to my face.

Then he bent down, gently pried my fingers loose—but didn't let go completely.

"Come on," he said quietly.

This time I didn't refuse.

The car's heat was cranked to maximum. I curled up in the passenger seat, knees drawn up, bag clutched to my chest, head down.

He didn't look at me. I didn't look at him. But I could feel his presence—massive, steady, filling the entire car. His hands on the steering wheel were steady. His knuckles bore scrapes from hitting those men.

My phone buzzed.

Sidney.

I answered, forcing my voice to sound normal. "I'm fine. Everything went smoothly. I'm almost home."

When I hung up, I stared at the screen for a long time.

"You didn't tell him." Elijah's voice was low.

"Tell him what?"

"That you were just cornered. That you're in my car right now."

"He's at a friend's house," I said quietly. "He sounded busy."

Elijah let out a cold laugh.

"He's my brother," he said, "but why the hell are you with him?"

"He's always been good to me."

"Good?" His voice rose. "Good means showing up. Good means putting you first. Good doesn't mean letting you walk home alone through the city after dark."

"You don't even know him."

"I only know he's not here."

The words cut like a knife to the chest. I couldn't speak.

The car turned onto my street.

"If you hate me so much," my voice came out low, every word trembling, "why didn't you just let them kill me back there?"

Elijah slammed on the brakes. The car jerked to a stop at the curb, tires skidding on gravel.

I shoved the door open, stumbled onto the sidewalk, and slammed it shut behind me.

By the time I reached my front door, my hands were shaking so badly I couldn't get the key in the lock.

I tried three times. On the third attempt, I gave up, pressed my forehead against the door, and let the tears fall.

"What the—" I gasped and spun around.

Elijah was standing on the porch. Silent as a ghost. The porch light stretched his shadow long across the ground, his shoulders broad as a moving wall.

"How do you walk without making any sound?" I shrieked, wiping my face frantically. "You're huge. You should sound like a freight train."

He didn't answer. Just looked at me.

I rushed forward and hit his chest with my palms. It was like slamming into stone—my wrists hurt from the impact. He didn't move.

I shoved again. And again. My fists kept coming down, all my frustration pounding into him.

He stood there like a wall.

When I finally ran out of strength and slumped against the doorframe, gasping, he spoke.

"Done?"

"Done."

He took the keys from my trembling hands and unlocked the door.

He didn't step inside. Just held the door open, waiting for me to enter.

"Someone needs to look at your arm," he said.

"It's fine."

"Maybe. But it should be checked."

"You'll leave after?"

He nodded.

I hesitated. Because I was exhausted. Because I didn't want to fight anymore. And because part of me didn't want to be alone right now.

"Bathroom's this way," I said.

When the bathroom light came on, the bruise on my arm looked worse than before. A large red-purple mark, with several crescent-shaped nail impressions.

Elijah took a towel from the shelf, wet it with warm water, wrung it out, and gently pressed it against the bruise.

His hand was large enough to cover my entire upper arm. His fingertips were rough, thick with calluses from years of handling weapons and training. But his touch was gentle, controlled—as if he knew exactly how much damage his hands could do, so he took extra care not to inflict more.

The warm sensation seeped into my skin. I couldn't help but shiver slightly.