Sonnet Ellison
I woke up in Vega’s arms. His arm was draped over my waist like holding me was natural. For a few seconds, I didn’t move. I just listened to his breathing and remembered how perfect last night had been.
We had watched TV for hours. I had explained House of the Dragon, the Targaryen family tree, the Dance of the Dragons, and why the show made more sense if he understood the history behind it. He had listened, asked questions, and looked at me like my rambling entertained him instead of annoyed him.
It felt almost too normal. And I was calm and happy. I couldn’t remember the last time I had smiled that much. Maybe I never had. But last night, while he listened to me ramble about dragons, dead kings, family betrayals, and fictional bloodlines, I had smiled until my cheeks hurt.
Before I realized what was happening, I had felt safe. Somewhere deep inside me, the little abandoned, parentless girl who had spent her whole life waiting for the next loss, the next locked door, the next adult to fail her, had finally lowered her guard. For a few hours, she had rested.
Then I remembered his lips on mine and the way he kissed me. A more na?ve part of my brain had hoped he would touch me again last night, but ever since he admitted he was attracted to me, he had kept distance intimately.
In his sleep, he looked nothing like the masked man who had stolen me from my condo.
He looked peaceful and beautiful. His lashes rested against his freckled cheeks, his beard framed his jaw perfectly, and the tattoos along his throat looked detailed in the sun.
Morning light touched his face softly, turning all that danger into something unfairly gorgeous.
Looking at him, I told myself I should respect the distance he’d been so careful to keep between us, but he’d spent days holding back, refusing to touch me like we both wanted him to, like I knew he could, and something in me snapped under the pressure of it.
I needed to know if what he’d told me was real, if the feelings he’d admitted were still there, still burning between us every time he looked at me.
I leaned closer and kissed him, softly and carefully.
My lips touched his like I was testing a boundary I already knew I shouldn’t cross.
He was warm, still half asleep, his breath slow against my mouth.
For one stolen second, he didn’t move, and I enjoyed the touch of his solid chest under my hand and the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
Then his lips responded just enough to make my stomach drop and my fingers curl against his chest. The kiss deepened, and my mouth pressed harder to his, chasing the taste of him, the feel of his beard tickling my skin, the dangerous comfort of being held by hands I should’ve been afraid of.
I felt him wake beneath me, felt his body go still, then tense like restraint had snapped into place all at once.
For half a second, I thought he would pull me closer.
Instead, his hand caught my chin, and he pulled away.
His eyes opened. “Stop.”
I instantly felt so embarrassed.
I sat back. “Why?”
He stared at me, awake now.
“Are you not attracted to me?”
His jaw flexed. “Non sono mai stato così attratto da una donna in vita mia. (I’ve never been more attracted to a woman in my life.)”
Every time he spoke to me in Italian, my pussy leaked.
I swallowed hard. “Then why did you stop?”
“Because I don’t want you giving yourself to me like this. I told you this.”
“Who said I wanted to have sex?”
His heated gaze locked with mine. “If you kept kissing me, there wasn’t going to be another option.”
While need crawled up my neck, I didn’t understand a man with that much restraint.
Vega got out of bed and headed for the bathroom.
A minute later, the shower started.
I stayed in his bed, furious at him and myself.
His restraint made me feel unwanted and foolish.
Maybe that was the point. Maybe he was playing me.
I had seen enough documentaries to know men didn’t always look like monsters when they were preparing women for hell.
This nigga could be grooming me for a cult, sex trafficking, or some nightmare I hadn’t thought of yet.
I hated that his control made me feel safer. That was exactly why I had to leave; before desire made me forget that I did not know this man.
I moved fast. In his closet, I found the cabinet where I had seen him put his guns before. I grabbed one, checked it the way I had learned years ago when I realized I needed to know how to handle a gun to protect myself.
Then I hurried to my room, pulled on pants and shoes, put the gun in the waistband, and tiptoed through the house, all while the shower kept running.
Since he had started letting me roam freely, I had seen him punch in the code for the front door. He tried to shield it with his body. But I had seen it. My fingers trembled as I entered it, and the lock released.
I slipped out of the front door. The high May temps hit me even though it was still morning.
By the time I made it through the gated community and reached the street, I was already sweating.
As I walked past a bus stop, I stared at the sign.
It was PACE, not CTA, which meant I wasn’t in the city.
I looked around, trying to place the suburb, but I couldn’t.
I had no phone or money, meaning the bus or an Uber was out of the question. So, I walked fast. Every few seconds, I looked over my shoulder. Vega stayed in the shower for almost thirty minutes every time. So, I knew I had some time.
Then a car slowed near the curb. My stomach dropped as the doors flew open. Three men jumped out and ran toward me.
I took off. I cut across somebody’s lawn, through a side yard, over wet grass, then into an alley. My breath burned. My legs shook. Behind me, footsteps pounded closer.
I slipped and went down hard, skinning my palm against concrete, but I scrambled up before they reached me.
That was when I remembered the gun. I pulled it out just as gunfire erupted behind me. I screamed and ducked behind a parked car. More shots cracked through the morning.
I peeked around the bumper and froze. Vega was barefoot, in shorts and no shirt, gun in hand, firing at the men who had chased me. He must have come after me half-dressed, straight from the shower.
They were shooting back. Vega dropped one, but another shot caught him in the leg. Vega grunted and went down behind a mailbox post, blood spreading dark through his shorts.
No one was looking at me. I could run. Freedom was right in front of me. I took three steps away. Then I looked back. One of the men rounded Vega’s cover, gun lifted, ready to put a bullet in his head.
Vega was going to die. My body turned before my mind agreed.
I walked back toward the gunfire, lifted the gun with both hands, and pulled the trigger.
The first shot hit the man in the back, and he stumbled.
I fired again, and he dropped before he could finish Vega.
The other man pointed his gun towards me just as I shot him too.
I put two bullets in him and he fell near the curb.
The street went quiet except for my breathing. Vega looked at me like he couldn’t understand what he was seeing.
I ran to him and dropped to my knees as I grabbed his leg. Blood soaked through his shorts and ran down his leg. Without thinking, I tore the bottom of my shirt and wrapped it tightly around his thigh, pulling hard to make a tourniquet. My hands were shaking, but the bleeding began to slow.
For a second, Vega stared at me like he was trying to decide whether I was real. Then his hand shot out, grabbed the phone from the grass beside him, and he made a call.
“Jamil, I need a favor. Clean the block,” he said, his voice rough from pain. “Every camera that could’ve caught me or Sonnet. Doorbells, traffic, houses. All of it. I need this street wiped before police start pulling footage.”
He listened for a few seconds, then he ended the call and looked at me. The softness I had seen in his eyes before was gone.
“Why the fuck did you run?” he snapped.
I sat back on my heels, blood on my hands, my torn shirt hanging crooked from my body. “I need to get the fuck away from all of this.”
His face twisted like that answer pissed him off more than the bullet in his leg. “I told you he wanted you dead. I told you he was coming for you. You thought I was playing?”
“I don’t know what to think!”
“You know enough,” he shot back. “You know I could’ve killed you already if that’s what I wanted.
You know I let my guard down with you. I took the mask off.
I showed you my face. I let you walk around my house.
I let you sleep in my bed. And after all that, you still ran straight into the hands of the niggas trying to kill you. ”
My throat tightened. “I ran from a man who broke into my home, drugged me, chained me up, and locked me inside a house. You don’t get to act shocked that I tried to escape.”
“I’m shocked because you’re smart enough to know better by now. You know I’m not the monster you keep trying to make me when it’s convenient.”
My eyes burned. “It’s not convenient. It’s confusing.”
“No, what’s confusing is you trusting me enough to close your eyes beside me last night, but not enough to believe me when I tell you stepping outside could get you killed.”
“I wanted my life back!”
“And I’m trying to make sure you live long enough to get it!” he barked.
I flinched, but I didn’t back down. “You’re acting like you rescued me from captivity when all you did was replace one captor with another.”
His eyes went cold. “Another captor? Roman’s men just chased you through the street with guns, and I risked my life to keep them from putting you in a trunk or a grave. That’s your comparison?” He dragged a hand over his face, breathing hard with frustration.
“I want to trust you,” I admitted, my voice shaking.
“That’s the problem. Part of me does, and that scares me more than anything.
Because all of this is crazy, Vega. I watched another man kill his own son.
You’ve locked me up ever since. I’m supposed to believe the man who kidnapped me is the safest place I can be?
You’re right; I am smart enough to know better.
I’m smart enough to know better than to be laying up with the nigga that kidnapped me and cooking him dinner every night like he can’t be plotting my death or to send me to Ecuador so fat white men can buy me for a hundred dollars. ”
He shook his head, and I could see the disappointment in his eyes. He looked wounded in a different place now.
I swallowed. “You want me to stop being scared of you because you’ve been nice to me. But being nice doesn’t mean you’re safe. It could mean that you know how to be very fucking manipulative.”
“I’m not Roman.”
“I don’t know that!”
His eyes narrowed.
I stood, saying, “All I know is a masked man came into my house and took me away from everything I know. All I know is you keep telling me you’re protecting me while making every decision about my life.
For all I know, this nice version of you could be grooming me, training me, making me comfortable enough to stop fighting until Roman decides he’s ready to kill me. ”
“That’s obviously not what this is,” he growled. “I was just shooting at Roman’s men.”
“I saw that. I also saw you kidnap me. Both things can be true.”
He stared at me like he wanted to argue, but pain cut through his anger. He pushed himself up with a hard breath, putting weight on his good leg first.
His hand closed around my elbow. He started limping toward the house, pulling me with him. “Let’s go.”
“Let go of me.”
“No.”
I tried to snatch my arm free, but his grip held.
“You don’t get it. I can’t be sure you’re saving me.
I want to trust you,” I said, stumbling to keep up with his uneven pace.
“That’s the problem. Part of me does, and I hate that because none of this makes sense.
I’m confused. I’m scared. You’re dangerous, Roman’s dangerous, and somehow, I’m supposed to decide which dangerous man is telling me the truth. ”
His grip loosened slightly.
We crossed the lawn, moved past the gate, and reached the walkway leading back to his house. Blood stained the concrete with every limping step. His breathing was controlled, but I could hear the pain in it.
Still, he said nothing. His silence made me more nervous than his anger.
When we got inside, he released my elbow and shut the door behind us. I stood in the living room with my heart beating too fast, waiting for him to yell, to drag me back to my room, for him to chain me back up.
I had run and almost gotten both of us killed. A part of me figured I had earned whatever punishment came next.
Vega disappeared into his room without a word. I stayed where I was, staring at the hallway.
When he limped back, he had my phone, my house keys, and a small stack of cash in his hand.
He limped to the front door, unlocked it, and opened it wide. Heat spilled into the cool house.
Then he held everything out to me. “You can leave.”
I looked at everything in his hand, then at him. My first instinct was to walk out just to prove he no longer controlled me. To prove to him, myself, and every scared part of me that had ever been trapped by somebody bigger, older, stronger, or meaner, that I could still choose my own direction.
But Roman was out there.
His men had found me before I even figured out what suburb I was in.
Vega’s leg bled through the makeshift tourniquet, but he stayed standing, one hand braced against the wall, his face tight with pain and restraint.
“Are you going to stop me?” I asked.
“No.”
It hurt how fast that answer came and how final it sounded.
“Do you want me to stay?”
Something flickered in his eyes. For a moment, I thought he might answer honestly. I thought he might tell me yes. I thought he might use that voice, that attention, that dangerous softness that kept pulling at places in me I didn’t trust.
Instead, he looked away. “What I want doesn’t matter right now.”
“It matters to me.”
“It shouldn’t. Not until you’re free enough to choose without me standing between you and the door.”
I looked at the open door again. Then I stepped forward and took my phone, keys, and the money.
Vega just watched me as I stood in front of the opened door for seconds that ticked by slowly, letting the hot June air touch my face.
Then I turned around and walked back inside.
Freedom was right there, but so was danger, so was the possibility that leaving him would put me directly in Roman’s hands. But these feelings for Vega frightened me more than Roman was at the moment.