Chapter 10 Going to Your House

I had been running for ten years, convincing myself I had shed my old skin, that I had finally outrun the shadow of the Davis Family.

But shadows had a way of catching up.

I turned the corner into a narrow street, the city lights fractured by the drizzle on my windshield. From the side, a black SUV lunged into the road, cutting me off with brutal precision.

My foot slammed the brake to the floor. Tires screamed against asphalt, leaving black scars in their wake.

Before I could even curse, another vehicle slid in behind me, blocking the street completely.

My stomach dropped.

This was no random accident. This was a trap.

Doors burst open. Men in black tactical gear stepped out, faces hidden behind masks. They were not carrying guns. Instead, each held a strange piece of equipment — sleek, metallic, with blinking LEDs I did not recognize.

One of them raised the device toward my car.

In an instant, every light inside went dead. The dashboard flickered once, then collapsed into darkness. The engine choked and fell silent. Locks clicked open on their own.

Ice flooded my veins.

They were not here to kill me. They were here to take me alive.

A gloved hand gripped my door handle and wrenched it open with terrifying force. Fingers like steel clamps closed around my arm.

"Ah!" My scream ripped through the air, raw and panicked. I clawed at his hand, nails raking across the back of his glove until I felt the resistance of skin beneath. I left red lines, but his grip did not loosen.

He dragged me toward the street, my body scraping against the frame of the car. Halfway out, the hopelessness hit me like a wave.

And then — the distant snarl of an engine, growing fast.

Gunfire cracked through the air, sharp and violent.

The man holding me jerked, his body stiffening. He glanced down at the sudden bloom of red spreading across his chest. Disbelief flickered in his eyes before his fingers slackened. He collapsed, hitting the pavement hard.

I looked up, breath ragged.

Arthur's black Bentley slid into view, smashing into the SUV behind me with a brutal shove. He spun the wheel, the car whipping into a perfect tail slide before stopping inches from my own.

He stepped out, his tall frame cutting through the chaos. In his hand, a matte-black Beretta still smoked from the shot. His eyes were cold — colder than the night — empty of mercy. Without hesitation, he fired again.

The remaining attackers pivoted, raising their weapons toward him. Bullets screamed through the air.

"Down!" Arthur's voice was a command, deep and sharp.

He closed the distance in a single stride, his body shielding mine completely. The scent of gunpowder mingled with the heat of him, the thud of his heartbeat steady against my ear.

Rounds slammed into the Bentley's frame, metal ringing under the onslaught.

A sharp grunt escaped him. Warm droplets spattered my cheek.

Blood.

His blood.

The gunfire stuttered, then ceased. The SUVs peeled away, tires shrieking, disappearing into the dark.

Arthur stayed in place, still covering me. His shoulders shifted, a faint tremor running through him.

"You…" My voice shook.

He straightened, turning his head just enough to meet my gaze. His face was pale under the streetlight.

The sleeve of his left arm was torn open, the fabric soaked crimson. Blood streamed freely, staining the tailored jacket.

"Get in," he said, no room for argument. His hand pressed against my back, guiding me into the Bentley. He slid in beside me, his voice low and rough. "We are going to your place."

We drove in silence, the city blurring past.

In my apartment — a glass-walled penthouse high above the streets — I led him straight to the bathroom.

"Take off your shirt."

His eyes flicked to mine, unreadable. Without a word, he unbuttoned the jacket, peeling it off. The blood-stained shirt followed, revealing a torso carved with muscle and shadow.

The wound was ugly — a ragged hole torn into the bicep of his left arm, the skin swollen and raw.

I grabbed the first-aid kit from under the sink, setting it beside me. "This is going to hurt."

"Do it." He leaned back against the cold tile, jaw tight.

I soaked a cotton pad in alcohol, pressing it gently around the wound. His muscles tensed instantly, a sharp breath hissing between his teeth. Sweat beaded along his hairline.

My fingers brushed his skin, the heat of him searing into me. I could feel the tremor of pain ripple through him.

The bullet was lodged deep.

I took a breath, gripping the tweezers. Slowly, I eased them into the torn flesh.

"Mmh…" The sound was low, dragged from his throat. His body lurched forward, his forehead dropping against my shoulder. His breath was hot against my neck.

I froze.

His free hand rose, closing around my wrist — the one holding the tweezers. The strength in his grip was startling, almost crushing.

"Sophia." My name was a growl, heavy with something I could not name.

He lifted his head. The amber in his eyes burned, mixing pain, fury… and something else. Something dangerous.

"You enjoy watching me bleed for you?" His voice was close, the words brushing my ear. "Or is it that this is the only way you will show me you care… even a little?"