I never should've taken the shortcut.
That's what kept playing in my mind as I stood frozen behind a stack of wooden crates in the alleyway, clutching my portfolio to my chest like it could somehow shield me from the nightmare unraveling a few feet away.
The night had started normally enough—class at the art institute, then coffee with Becca, and a missed bus that left me with two options: wait an hour in the dark or cut through the industrial side of town and be home in twenty minutes.
I chose wrong.
The alley reeked of motor oil and something else, something sharp and metallic that I didn't recognize until I saw it. Blood. It pooled on the concrete beneath a man in a charcoal suit, his mouth agape in a silent scream, a red stain spreading across his chest. Another man stood over him, back straight, posture regal in a way that didn't belong in a place like this.
He didn't move like a thug. No, this man was all control and command. Everything about him—his black tailored suit, the glint of his watch, the way he held the silencer like an afterthought—screamed power. Dangerous, absolute power.
And then, he turned.
I sucked in a breath too late. His eyes found me like a spotlight in the dark. Cold. Piercing. As if he were already calculating how to erase me.
My body wouldn't move. Couldn't. My legs were jelly, my breath trapped in my lungs. All I could do was stare as he started walking toward me, deliberate steps echoing off the alley walls like a ticking clock.
This is it, I thought. This is how I die.
And then he stopped in front of me.
His eyes swept over my face, my oversized sweater, the sketchbook peeking from under my arm. He tilted his head slightly, like he was trying to make sense of me.
"Innocent," he murmured, so softly I almost thought I imagined it.
I opened my mouth to speak—to beg, scream, something—but no words came out.
"What's your name?" he asked.
I blinked. "E-Elena."
"Elena," he repeated, letting the name roll off his tongue like it was something sacred. His voice was low, smooth like silk dipped in venom. "You weren't supposed to see that."
"I—I didn't. I didn't see anything," I whispered. It was a lie. A pathetic one.
He smiled then. It was terrifying.
"I believe you," he said.
And just like that, he reached into his coat.
I flinched.
But instead of pulling out a weapon, he pulled out a phone. Tapped something on the screen. Spoke into it. "Get the car. Now."
He looked back at me, and something shifted in his gaze. It wasn't anger. It wasn't even curiosity.
It was obsession.
"You're coming with me."
I stumbled back a step. "What? No—no, I can't—"
His hand shot out, not roughly, but firm, fingers curling around my wrist. The heat of his skin against mine sent a jolt through me.
"You can. You will."
The car pulled up seconds later—sleek, black, silent. The door opened without a sound. I was too stunned to fight as he guided me inside, his grip never loosening. The smell of leather and spice hit me the second I sank into the seat.
"I—I have a family. People will look for me—"
He looked over at me, unbothered. "They'll be told you're safe."
"Safe?" I stared at him. "You just killed someone!"
He leaned in closer, eyes narrowing. "That man was a traitor. He sold out my brother to the police. He deserved worse than a bullet."
"You—You're a criminal." My voice trembled.
"I'm a king," he said coldly. "And you, Elena, are now mine."
I stared at him like he was mad.
"I don't even know you."
"You will." He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. "I don't usually believe in fate. But the moment I saw you, I knew. You were put in my path for a reason."
My heart thudded like a war drum in my chest.
"This isn't fate," I whispered. "This is kidnapping."
He smiled again, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Call it what you want, little deer. But I never let go of what's mine."