Viktor stumbled back, his body hitting the wall before sliding to the floor. His dead eyes stared blankly ahead, his mouth slightly open as if he still had something to say.

My hands were shaking. Blood—his, mine—was everywhere.

"You really thought you had me, huh?" I spat, my voice sharp and venomous. "You? Marry me? You crusty, power-hungry fossil."

I kicked his boot, his head lolling to the side.

"Did you think I’d fucking swoon? That I’d bat my lashes and play the obedient little trophy wife while you paraded me around like some prize you earned?" I laughed bitterly, wiping the blood off my cheek with the back of my trembling hand. “You were never going to own me, Viktor. Not in this life, not in any!”

My breath hitched as the weight of what I’d done started to settle in. The gun slipped from my fingers, clattering to the floor.

But I wasn’t sorry. Not for this. Not for him.

The music from the nightclub pounded faintly in the distance, oblivious to the chaos back here.

I turned and ran.

Out the door, through the maze of hallways, past the bodies of men I’d killed.

When I burst into the cold night air, my dress was torn, my face streaked with blood, and my chest heaving with every ragged breath.

The city stretched out in front of me—dark, endless, and full of shadows.

I had no plan, no allies, and nowhere to go.

But one thing was certain: Nikolai Romanov was going to regret ever thinking he could sell me off like property.

***

The cold night air hit me like a slap, sharp and biting against my blood-streaked skin. My heels—useless, overpriced death traps—clicked loudly on the wet pavement as I ran through the alleyways behind the nightclub.

I had no plan, no phone, and no backup. My arm throbbed from where Viktor’s goon had grazed me, and my shoulder burned where he’d sliced me with that shard of glass. But the adrenaline pumping through my veins kept me moving.

Behind me, I could hear shouting—my father’s men spreading out, their voices echoing off the brick walls.

“Find her!” someone barked. “She couldn’t have gone far!”

Think, Cassandra. Think.

The alleys twisted like a maze, dark and littered with broken glass and trash bags that reeked of rot. I ducked behind a dumpster, pressing myself against the cold metal, trying to slow my breathing.

But footsteps—sharp, heavy boots—grew closer.

“Check over there!”

Shit.

I darted across the alley, my heels skidding on something slimy. I barely caught myself before face-planting into the pavement.

My dress was torn up one side, blood smeared across the pale fabric like some grotesque piece of modern art. I probably looked insane, but I couldn’t stop.

A car screeched to a halt at the end of the alley, its headlights flaring to life and blinding me.

I froze like a deer caught in the beams.

A man stepped out of the driver’s side, silhouetted against the harsh light. Tall, broad shoulders, leather jacket. His face was shadowed, but I caught a flash of something in his hand—a gun.

“Hey!” he called out, his voice rough, sharp. “What the hell are you doing out here, princess?”

Not your problem, dude.

I turned and bolted down the opposite end of the alley. Behind me, I heard him swear under his breath.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and then came the sound of boots pounding after me.

But before I could reach the next corner, a pair of hands grabbed me, yanking me into a dark alcove. A gun pressed against my temple, cold and unyielding.

“Gotcha,” a man’s voice rasped in my ear.

One of my father’s men. His breath reeked of garlic and stale cigarettes.

I swallowed down the panic clawing up my throat. My mind raced, searching for something—anything—to get me out of this.

But then, there was a click.

Not from the gun against my head, but from somewhere in front of us.

“Let her go.”

The voice was low, steady, and absolutely done with everyone’s bullshit.

I peeked out from the corner of my eye.

The man from the car was standing a few feet away, his gun raised, aimed directly at the guy holding me.

“This isn’t your fight,” the goon sneered. “Walk away.”

The stranger cocked his head slightly, his jaw tight. “Wrong answer.”

Bang.

The gunshot rang out so loud my ears popped. The man holding me slumped, dead weight dragging me down with him as we both hit the ground.

I scrambled out from under his body, my breaths coming in short, panicked gasps.

The stranger lowered his gun, stepping closer, his face finally illuminated by a flickering streetlamp.

He looked like he’d been carved out of stone—sharp jawline, dark stubble, messy hair falling over narrowed eyes that seemed to size me up in seconds. His leather jacket was worn, his boots scuffed. But damn! He's fucking handsome.

“Are you gonna sit there all night, or are you getting up?” he asked, voice dry.

I pushed myself to my feet, wobbling slightly on my heels. He frowned at them.

“You’re running from people trying to kill you… in those?”

I scowled. “Sorry, didn’t exactly have time to change into my sneakers.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Who’s after you?”

“None of your business,” I shot back.

“Lady, I just killed a man for you. It’s my business now.”

I hesitated, biting my lip. His gaze was intense, sharp like he could see straight through me.

“My father,” I said finally. “Nikolai Romanov. He promised me to Viktor Ivanov, and when I said no… things got messy.”

He let out a low whistle. “Romanov and Ivanov. You’ve really pissed off the worst people in this city, princess.”

“Stop calling me that,” I snapped.

“What’s your name, then?”

“Cassandra.”

He nodded, tucking his gun back into his jacket. “Vincent.”

For a moment, we just stared at each other, the distant sound of approaching sirens filling the silence.

“Look,” he said, glancing down the alley, “you’re bleeding, you’re in heels, and you’ve got half the damn mafia hunting you. You’re not gonna make it on your own.”

“And what? You’re offering to help me out of the kindness of your heart?”

He smirked slightly, but there was no humor in it. “Let’s just say I’ve got nothing better to do tonight.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, wincing when my shoulder flared with pain. “Why should I trust you?”

Vincent’s smile faded, his gaze hardening. “You shouldn’t. But right now, I’m your best shot at surviving the night. So, what’s it gonna be, Cassandra? Run blindly into the dark, or stick with the guy who’s still got bullets left?”

My stomach twisted. Every instinct I had screamed not to trust him, but… he was right. Alone, I was dead.

“Fine,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “But if you try anything, I’ll put a bullet in you myself.”

He barked out a short laugh. “Fair enough, princess.”

I rolled my eyes and followed him as he led me deeper into the shadows.

The city loomed around us, dark and sprawling, and somewhere out there, my father’s men were still hunting me.

But at least now, I wasn’t running alone.

***

Vincent’s so-called hideout wasn’t exactly what I expected.

The door creaked loudly as he shoved it open, revealing a dingy apartment that smelled faintly of cigarettes and regret. The furniture looked like it had been salvaged from a thrift store fire—torn cushions, chipped wood, and a coffee table held together with duct tape. A half-empty whiskey bottle sat next to an overflowing ashtray.

“Welcome to paradise,” Vincent muttered, throwing his jacket over the back of a chair.

I didn’t bother hiding my grimace. “You live here?”

“No,” he said flatly. “I just bring princesses here for fun.”

I shot him a glare, kicking off my ruined heels by the door. My feet screamed in relief as I padded barefoot across the cracked linoleum.

“Bathroom’s down the hall,” he said, nodding toward a narrow doorway. “You’re a mess. Clean up before you bleed all over my floor.”

I was too tired to argue. The adrenaline from earlier was wearing off, leaving behind a throbbing pain in my shoulder and a dull ache in my ribs. I shuffled to the bathroom, flipping on the flickering light.

The mirror above the sink showed the damage: smudged makeup, matted hair, blood streaking down my arm and staining the once-beautiful dress my father had insisted I wear tonight. My eyes were puffy, my lip split, and there was dried blood caked under my nails.

I looked like hell, but at least I was alive.

I peeled off the dress, wincing as it stuck to my wounds. The water from the tap was freezing, but I didn’t care. I scrubbed at my skin until it was raw, washing away the blood, dirt, and whatever lingering scent of 'him' still clung to me.

When I came out, wearing a too-big hoodie Vincent had tossed in my direction, I found him sprawled on the couch, his boots kicked up on the coffee table. He was nursing a glass of whiskey, the bottle within easy reach.

“You clean up nice,” he said without looking at me.

“Bite me,” I shot back, sitting down on the only other chair in the room.

For a while, the only sound was the faint hum of traffic outside.

“What’s your plan?” he asked finally, his voice calm but curious.

I blinked at him. “My 'plan'?”