2. Aria
Aria
Pain pulses through my skull, dragging me from the darkness. I blink, trying to make sense of unfamiliar shadows dancing across a ceiling that isn't mine. A storm rages outside. Yes, I remember a thunderstorm. I was running. Rain pelts against windows somewhere nearby. I was running in the rain.
My body feels like one massive bruise, each heartbeat sending fresh waves of agony through me.
When I try to move, a large hand presses gently against my shoulder.
"Easy," rumbles a deep voice. "You're safe.”
I jerk away instinctively, a whimper escaping my lips as pain shoots through my ribs.
My vision clears enough to see him—towering and broad-shouldered, with piercing eyes that both captivate and enthrall.
His dark hair is shaved on the sides and longer in the middle, a mohawk.
The style, combined with the rest of this guy’s looks, are harshly terrifying.
His face is all hard angles, stubbled jaw, and stark intensity.
Black ink crawls up his neck and disappears beneath his shirt collar, reappearing on muscled forearms exposed by rolled-up sleeves.
I remember him. The man who caught me trespassing. The one with the gun.
My heart hammers against my bruised ribs. I push myself back until I hit what I now realize is a headboard.
"Where am I?" My voice comes out raspy, barely audible.
His brow cocks as if to say, “You’re the one who snuck in where she doesn’t belong , you tell me, dumbass.” But that’s not what comes out of his mouth.
"You collapsed,” he informs me, watching me with those sharp eyes. “I carried you here to the bed.”
I scan the room, cataloging escape routes. The man blocks the only path to the door.
"I'm Hawk," he says, as if sensing my calculations. "This is my house."
"I didn't know anyone lived here," I whisper. "I'm sorry. I'll go?—"
"No one lives here. Not anymore." Something dark flashes across his face. “I received a security alert and came to check it out.”
When I shift again, pain rips through my torso, and memories flood back unbidden.
"You think you can just refuse me, wifey? Refuse me what I’m owed?”
Marco's face contorts with rage as he looms over me in my uncle's kitchen. The engagement ring he forced onto my finger glints ostentatiously under the harsh fluorescent lights.
I can barely believe this is happening. Marco is more than twice my age.
“I-I don’t want to marry you," I say, hating how my voice trembles. "I never wanted this. Uncle Vincent arranged it without my consent."
"You ungrateful little bitch." His hand connects with my cheek, snapping my head sideways. The shock of it freezes me for precious seconds. "Vincent promised. Gave me his word. Do you know what happens to people who renege on their promises to me?”
I back away, bumping into the counter. My fingers close around the first object they find—a ceramic mug. "Stay back."
Marco laughs, the sound chilling. "What are you going to do with that? Hit me?”
“Self-defense,” I state with as much courage as I can muster.
He steps closer, his bulk filling the kitchen doorway.
“The orphan troublemaker defending herself against me?” He scoffs.
“Do you honestly think anyone will believe you? You think anyone in this town will take your word over mine?” Marco is truly frightening.
The look in his eyes—there’s zero compassion or understanding.
There’s excitement. He gets off on this. On cold cruelty.
When he lunges, I swing. The mug shatters against his temple. He staggers, blood trickling down his face, expression morphing from shock to murderous rage.
"You should not have done that, wifey,” he whispers, a menacing grin transforming his features into something truly demonic.
I want to flee, but I’m trapped. He has me cornered.
He grasps my neck in his iron grip and squeezes until I see stars.
After the first few blows, I barely feel the beating he wields to my face and body—his punishment for my insolence and disobedience.
Eventually, he releases me, and I fall to the ground, a puddle of bruises and pain.
He must think I’m unconscious. Because when he gets a call, he steps into the other room.
That’s when I run. Pushing myself up on shaky legs, as quietly as possible, I stagger to the kitchen door.
I have the presence of mind to grab my backpack from its hook before stumbling out into the rain.
With every step, I gain more confidence, more momentum until my feet pound against the wet grass.
Blind with terror, I duck through yards, down side streets, finally reaching an overgrown property lined by trees.
Beyond the trees looms the mansion on the hill. An urban legend. A ghost story. Haunted, they say. Perfect. No one will look for me there.
A strangled sound escapes me, and I realize I'm shaking. Hawk's expression shifts, hard features softening almost imperceptibly.
“Who hurt you?” It doesn’t even sound like a question. His voice has gone dangerously quiet.
I want to tell him, but I know better. You think anyone in this town will take your word over mine?
I wrap my arms around myself, fingers digging into the damp fabric of my sweater. "It doesn't matter."
"It matters." The two words come out like a promise. Or a threat.
He moves, and I flinch, but he's only reaching for something on the table beside us. A bottle of water, which he offers to me, cap already loosened. I hesitate before taking it, our fingers brushing momentarily. His are calloused, warm against my ice-cold skin.
"Why this place?” he asks as I sip the water, the cool liquid soothing my parched throat.
I stare at the floor. "Everyone thinks it's haunted. I didn’t think anyone would look for me here.”
"Smart." There's something like approval in his voice. "But dangerous. This place is in disrepair. It’s falling apart. How’d you get in?”
I flinch at his question. “I was able to jimmy the lock on one of the back doors.” I lift my eyes to his apologetically.
Something passes between us in that moment—understanding, maybe. His eyes narrow slightly, studying me with an intensity that should feel intrusive but doesn't.
“What, exactly are you running from?” He crosses his arms, tattoos shifting with the movement. Birds of prey, I realize. The artwork is beautiful.
My chest tightens. If there’s one lesson I’ve learned over and over, it’s to trust no one.
Men like my uncle Vincent and Marco wear masks of respectability while underneath they’re manipulative, controlling monsters.
But this man—Hawk—wears his danger openly.
There's something honest and true in that.
"My fiancé," I finally say. "Ex-fiancé. I ended it. He didn't take it well."
Hawk's jaw clenches. "He do that to your face?"
My fingers touch the bruise blooming along my cheekbone, and I nod.
"He coming after you?" His question seems casual, but there's nothing casual about the way Hawk's shoulders tense.
“Probably." The word barely escapes my throat. “Yes. Definitely. He... he has connections. Resources."
Hawk watches me for a long moment, calculation in his gaze. "Got a name? This ex of yours."
I swallow hard. "Marco." Even saying his name makes my skin crawl. I offer nothing more, and Hawk doesn't press.
"Listen," he says, voice lowered as he crouches down, bringing himself to my eye level. It should make him less intimidating. It doesn't. "I've got an apartment above my shop in town. You can crash there tonight, get yourself sorted."
“You’ll help me?” I blink at him, stunned. "Why?"
"Maybe I don't like men who hit women." His expression darkens. "Maybe I’m a sucker for a damsel in distress. Take your pick."
"I don't have money," I admit. "I can't pay you."
"Not asking for payment."
It’s not as though I’m in a position to refuse. Still, trust doesn’t come easy. Not for me.
"Everyone wants something." The words slip out before I can stop them, bitter from experience.
His eyes harden. "I'm not everyone."
I think of the anger that flashed in his eyes as his gaze ran over my battered face and wonder if perhaps it won’t be a mistake to trust this man. Maybe he truly does just want to help.
The silence stretches between us, filled only by the drumming of rain and distant thunder. Finally, I nod. "Okay. I accept. Thank you."
Relief crosses his face so quickly I almost miss it. "Got anything else here? Belongings?"
I shake my head. “I, um…I have a backpack.” I’m not even sure what exactly it contains. My sketchbook, workout clothes, and wallet with a little cash.
"Can you walk?"
I push myself to my feet, swaying slightly. Hawk's hand shoots out, steadying me without actually touching me—creating a barrier I can lean against if needed. The consideration in that gesture, small as it is, flutters my heart beneath my sore ribcage.
"I'm fine,” I insist, though my body screams otherwise.
He strips off his rain jacket and holds it out. "It's still pouring. Put this on."
The jacket swallows me, heavy with his scent—manly and spicy like citrus and cedar.
"Just hold onto me. I won't let you fall." He holds me gently, his fingers seeming to deftly avoid my bruises as he leads me down the stairs, through the mansion's grand foyer, and outside where the rain has lessened to a steady drizzle.
"What's your name?"
"Aria," I say, the first truth I've offered freely.
"Aria," he repeats, as if testing the sound of it. "Ever been on the back of a Harley before, Aria?"
I shake my head, warily. It’s then that I notice a massive motorcycle beneath the portico.
The thought of riding behind this huge, tatted man as he commands his gleaming beast of steel and chrome through Wraithport fires off sparks of eager anticipation within me.
My excitement is short-lived, however, drowned out by utter terror when a police cruiser pulls up at the entrance to the property, its blue and red lights flashing.
My entire body goes rigid with fear. I can barely breathe. I duck behind Hawk, my fingers digging into his sides involuntarily as panic ripples through me in waves.
“You called the police?!” My voice is frantic against his back. "You called the police on me?"