Alina's pov
Blood spilled in a slow, glistening line down the side of his face, tracing the sharp cut of his cheekbones like some dark, reverent caress.
It should have been frightening.
It should have made me pull away.
But I couldn't.
I wouldn't.
His black eyes locked onto mine — endless, steady, unreadable — but beneath that familiar storm, something else flickered.
Something human.
Something fragile.
I felt the air leave my lungs in a rush.
He had saved me.
When no one else had.
My fingers, trembling, curled tighter around the torn fabric of his sleeve — as if he might disappear if I let go.
"You're bleeding," I whispered, the words hoarse, shaking.
He said nothing.
He only stood there, silent and unflinching, watching me.
And that stare —
God, that stare.
It wasn't cold.
It wasn't cruel.
It was searching.
It was... concerned.
Something sharp and aching twisted in my chest.
I knew what kind of man haunted my nights — the masked stranger with hands like iron and shadows in his breath.
But Damon —
Damon was different.
He had stepped between me and danger.
He had bled for me.
Before I could think, before common sense could catch up to the thundering of my heart, I reached up —
I touched him.
Lightly. Hesitantly.
As if I could fix what the world had broken in him.
My fingertips brushed across his skin, wiping the blood away with clumsy care.
And for a moment — a single, dangerous heartbeat — I forgot the fear that lived inside me.
I hated myself for how badly I wanted to help him.
How much I wanted him to stay.
A painful breath burned down my throat. I needed to fix this.
I needed to fix something.
Without thinking, I grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the glow of a convenience store across the street.
He let me.
Without a word, without resistance.
Inside, the harsh fluorescent lights buzzed loudly, making the world feel brittle and too exposed.
The air smelled of bleach and burnt coffee.
I stumbled down an aisle, vision swimming, until my hands found a battered first-aid kit.
I dropped it onto the counter and fumbled it open, my fingers slick with sweat, trembling with urgency.
Behind me, Damon leaned against the wall, blood still slowly trickling down his temple, his breathing low and even — watching me like he wasn't sure I was real.
And then — softly, so softly it barely reached me — he spoke.
"Angel," he murmured.
The word cracked something wide open inside me.
The first sob ripped free before I could stop it.
I blinked furiously, trying to force back the tears, but it was useless.
My hands shook as I dabbed at his wound, too rough, too desperate.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice shattering. "And... thank you."
Something in him shifted.
His shoulders tensed.
His mouth tightened.
For the briefest second, I thought he might pull away.
Instead, Damon moved —
slow, deliberate, careful —
and reached out to me.
He didn't grab me.
He didn't demand.
He offered.
His arms opened, tentative and heartbreakingly gentle.
An invitation, not a command.
And without thinking —
without breathing —
I stepped into him.
His arms folded around me, anchoring me, shielding me.
I pressed my face against his chest, clutching the front of his shirt as if I could hide inside him, away from the darkness clawing at my mind.
Damon.
The man who made me feel safe when I should have been beyond saving.
The man I shouldn't trust — but somehow already did.
And somewhere deep inside, a terrifying thought bloomed:
Maybe I didn't have to be strong all the time.
Maybe, just for now, I could let someone else carry the weight.
Even if it was Damon.
Especially if it was Damon.
I swallowed hard and took a shaky step back.
My hands wouldn't stop trembling, and my chest felt like it was being squeezed tight.
As soon as Damon moved away, the warmth he brought with him disappeared, leaving behind this awful, empty cold.
I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to stop the shaking.
The crash. The headlights. That split second where everything could have ended... but didn't.
I should be dead.
I shook my head hard, trying to snap out of it, but the thought stuck to me like glue.
And then Damon's voice, soft and careful:
"Are you hurt?"
His eyes were steady, serious — like he could see everything I was trying so hard to hide.
"You can talk to me, Alina," he said. "You can trust me."
Trust.
The word echoed in my head.
Could I really trust him?
The man who saved me, sure — but who also made my skin prickle with nerves every time he got too close?
I thought about the masked man.
The one who haunted my nights, who made me feel like someone was always there, lurking.
Could they be the same person?
I didn't want to believe it. I couldn't.
Because Damon's voice was gentle. His touch had been steady, not cruel.
And part of me — the scared, desperate part — needed to believe he was safe.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
Too many fears. Too many questions. Too much I didn't want to admit.
Damon didn't push.
He just stood there, waiting, calm and quiet.
And somehow, that was worse.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to pull myself together.
Trying not to fall apart right in front of him.
"Do I look pathetic right now?" I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Do I look... broken?"
For a moment, he didn't say anything. His mouth opened like he wanted to, but he stopped himself.
All I could hear was his breathing — steady, patient — and the heavy silence between us.
Then he said, low and serious,
"If something's wrong... I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
The way he said it made something inside me twist.
His words were soft, but there was something heavier underneath them.
Something possessive. Something that scared me, even though part of me didn't want to run.
I should've laughed it off.
Should've told him not to say things like that.
Should've said I didn't belong to anyone.
But I didn't.
Instead, the truth slipped out before I could stop it.
"Someone's after me," I said, my voice cracking a little.
Damon's whole body tensed, and I knew right away I'd said too much.
But it was too late now.
"I don't know who it is," I kept going, my words small and shaky.
"But I feel it. Every night."
I hugged myself tighter.
"Every shadow, every sound... I feel like someone's watching me. I can't sleep. I can't... I can't even breathe properly sometimes."
It was pouring out now — everything I'd been bottling up.
"I don't even feel safe in my own room," I whispered.
Saying it out loud made it real.
Made it worse.
I gave a short, bitter laugh, trying to brush it off.
"I sound crazy, don't I?"
Before I could spiral any further, Damon's voice cut through, firm and sharp.
"No."
I flinched a little at how strong it was.
I looked up at him, startled.
There was no distance in his eyes anymore.
They were locked on me — intense, dark, almost angry.
But not at me.
At something else.
Something he wasn't saying.
He stepped closer, and I felt it again — that overwhelming energy he carried, like he could crush the whole world if he wanted.
His eyes softened just a little.
Enough to make it worse.
Enough to make me feel like I could trust him, even when I knew I shouldn't.
And God help me, I didn't back away.
I didn't run.
I just stood there, staring up at him, while my heart pounded so loud I was sure he could hear it.
Damons pov
The sharp sting of pain sliced down the side of my face, but it barely registered.
It was nothing — nothing — compared to the weight settling low and immovable in my chest.
The blood trickled past my temple, cooling against my skin, forgotten.
Because she was looking at me like that.
Like I was something more than I was.
Like I could be something better.
Her small hands trembled as they fumbled with the first-aid kit, her desperate touches so gentle, so heartbreakingly sincere it hollowed me out.
And then —
those words.
"I'm sorry… and thank you."
Two broken whispers.
Two blows I hadn't been prepared to take.
I wasn't supposed to feel anything.
Not regret. Not guilt.
Those were useless emotions. Weaknesses. Chains.
And yet — as I stood there, silent and bleeding, feeling her body crumple against mine —
I felt it.
A crack.
A flaw.
For a single moment — brief, fleeting, dangerous —
I wanted to be the man she saw.
Not the monster I had already proven myself to be.
And I hated it.
I hated the way she leaned into me, trembling like a bird that had flown too long in a storm.
I hated the way she fit against my chest — perfectly, fatally — like some missing piece I had no right to claim.
I wasn't supposed to be her savior.
I was supposed to be her ruin.
But when she broke — when her walls shattered in my arms —
**I did
She shook in front of me, her small frame barely holding itself together.
And I — I was the reason.
I stood still, fists curling at my sides, fighting every instinct that screamed to reach out, to pull her into me and never let go.
She looked so fragile, so breakable, and the terrible thing was...
I liked it.
I liked that she needed someone. That she needed me.
"Are you hurt?" I asked, my voice softer than I meant it to be.
She wouldn't meet my eyes.
She was wrapping her arms around herself like that would be enough to stop the world from crashing down on her.
"You can talk to me," I said, almost pleading without realizing it.
"You can trust me."
The word tasted bitter on my tongue.
Trust.
How could she trust me when it was me who had planted the fear inside her?
I watched her struggle — the way her mouth opened and closed, the way the war raged in her black, glassy eyes.
And it made me feel something I didn't want to name.
I didn't move.
Didn't dare.
If I touched her now, I wouldn't let go.
"Do I look pathetic?" she whispered, broken.
No.
She looked like something holy brought to its knees — something too pure for this ugly, rotting world.
And I was the rot.
I should have told her.
Should have confessed that the shadows she feared at night... they were mine.
But I stayed silent, watching her unravel because of me — and still thinking how beautiful she looked doing it.
"If something's wrong," I forced out, "I'm here. I'm all yours."
I meant it more than she could ever understand.
All yours.
The words didn't even feel like mine; they felt ancient, something primal clawing out of my chest.
I wasn't sure if I was comforting her or staking a claim.
When she finally spoke — when the truth slipped past her trembling lips — I went very, very still.
"Someone's after me," she said.
My jaw tightened.
Someone is after you because I put you in their path.
Because I can't stay away from you.
She kept going, spilling out all the fear I had carefully planted in her nights.
Every word was a knife in my ribs.
And still — still — a darker part of me was glad.
Glad she felt haunted.
Because it meant she was tied to me.
Even if she didn't know it.
Even if she would hate me if she ever found out.
"I sound crazy, don't I?" she whispered.
"No," I said — fast, sharp, too loud.
No. Never.
Her fear didn't make her crazy.
It made her real.
It made her mine.
I stepped closer, unable to help myself.
She didn't move away.
And that — that tiny act of trust — nearly brought me to my knees.
I saw it in her eyes: the doubt, the confusion, the ache for safety.
And God help me, I wanted to be the one who gave it to her.
I didn't realize it yet — couldn't admit it yet — but somewhere deep inside, love was already poisoning me.
Alina's pov
He believed me.
And somehow, that terrified me even more.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. His whole body tensed like he was fighting something.
Then — without a word — he stepped closer.
The air shifted. Heavy. Dense.
His presence swallowed the space between us, and I couldn't breathe right.
"You're not crazy," he said, voice low, solid, unshakable.
"And if you don't feel safe... then something is wrong."
His certainty hit something deep inside me — some fragile thing I hadn't realized was still alive.
Before I could even move, he reached out.
Fingertips brushed my temple — slow, careful — pushing a damp strand of hair behind my ear.
It was a light touch. Barely there.
But it burned.
His hand lingered longer than necessary, thumb grazing along my cheekbone — a fleeting, soft drag of skin against skin — before he finally dropped it.
I let out a shaky breath I didn't know I was holding.
Then his voice dropped lower, rougher, threaded with something lethal that sent cold prickling down my spine.
"Whoever it is," he said, "they won't get the chance to regret it."
The promise in his voice was so sharp it cut right through me.
I shivered, but before I could pull away or say anything, he smiled — slow, deliberate.
Not kind.
Not mocking.
Calculated.
It made my heart stumble in my chest.
"I have an offer for you," he said quietly, tilting his head like he already knew exactly how this would end.
I stiffened, taking a half-step back without meaning to.
"An offer?" My voice came out too thin, too small.
His smile deepened, and for the first time, his eyes really locked onto mine — burning into me, like he could see everything I was trying to hide.
"You need protection," he said, voice quieter now, almost... intimate.
"You need someone who'll make sure nothing... and no one... touches you."
There was a pause — thick, tense — like the air itself was waiting.
I swallowed hard. "And in return?"
He chuckled, a low, dark sound that curled around my ribs.
"I'll ask for nothing," he said, almost lazy. Then added, after a beat, "Yet."
The way he said it — like a promise, not a threat — made my knees want to give out.
He shifted even closer, the space between us almost nonexistent now.
I could feel the heat of him, his breath ghosting against my forehead.
"You're too shaken to be alone tonight," he murmured.
My hands twitched at my sides, unsure whether to push him away or cling to him.
Without thinking, his fingers found mine.
Not grabbing.
Not forcing.
Just... touching.
Letting his hand brush against the backs of my knuckles, a silent question.
The contact was feather-light, but it rattled me more than anything he'd said.
He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear — not a kiss, but close enough to steal the breath from my lungs.
"Babysit Noah for me," he whispered.
I blinked, heart hammering.
He leaned back enough to meet my eyes again, still holding my hand loosely between his fingers, like he hadn't even realized he was doing it.
"You'll watch over him," he said, his voice softer now, almost... careful. "And I'll make sure no one — nothing — watches you."
The words wrapped around me, binding tighter than any chain.
I didn't nod.
I didn't speak.
His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist, slow, absent — a ghost of a touch, as if memorizing the beat of my pulse.
Neither of us spoke.
The silence between us wasn't empty.
It throbbed — full of things neither of us could name yet.
For a second, just a second, I thought he might lean in closer.
Thought I might let him.
But then Damon pulled back — careful, controlled — as if sensing how close we were to something neither of us could undo.
His fingers slipped from mine, slow, reluctant.
The absence of his touch felt sharper than the contact itself.
"You'll be safe," he said, voice a little rougher now.
Almost like a promise.
Almost like a vow.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded — barely — before turning away.
Because if I stayed one more second...
If I looked at him again...
I was afraid I wouldn't walk away at all.