The Price of Touching her

The whispers followed Amara like ghosts.

They didn't need to be loud—just sharp enough to sink into her skin like tiny blades.

"Did you see that? Aldridge practically owns her."

"She didn't even flinch when he touched her. Maybe she likes it."

"Lucas got what he deserved, but… what does she have that keeps Rafael interested?"

Amara felt their eyes on her, felt the weight of their judgment, their amusement. But she couldn't focus on them. Not when the world around her was tilting slightly, her head pounding from the impact of the ball that had slammed into her skull minutes earlier.

A sharp sting pulsed at her temple, and when she blinked, her vision blurred for a moment before adjusting.

She shouldn't be standing.

She shouldn't be pushing through the crowd like she wasn't bleeding.

But what choice did she have?

The air felt suffocating, and her skin still burned where Rafael had touched her—his fingers curling under her chin, his voice low, taunting, unforgivable.

"Look what you've done to yourself, Lenz."

Her hands trembled as she tried to make it down the hallway, the whispers growing distant as the pain in her head sharpened.

Then—a voice.

"Miss Lenz?"

She blinked up, her breath uneven.

Professor Cain stood in front of her, his sharp hazel eyes scanning her wound before his lips pressed into a thin line. He wasn't young like Rafael, nor was he cruel. He was the kind of professor who rarely paid attention to the drama in the university.

But even he couldn't ignore this.

"You're bleeding," he stated flatly, his gaze flickering over her unsteady stance.

Amara swallowed hard. "I'm fine."

A scoff. "You're not. Come with me."

Before she could protest, he was already turning toward the medical wing, his steps steady, unbothered by her hesitation.

She should refuse.

She should say no.

But her body was too weak, her head spinning too much for her to argue.

She followed.

The infirmary was cold. Too sterile, too silent.

Amara winced as the nurse dabbed at her wound, the sting sharp enough to make her fingers curl into the fabric of her skirt.

"Not deep," the woman muttered. "But it'll bruise."

Of course, it would.

Another mark. Another reminder of what it meant to be powerless in a world where men like Lucas existed.

Professor Cain stood near the doorway, arms crossed. He hadn't spoken much since bringing her here, but now—he finally sighed.

"You need to be careful," he said simply. "You attract the wrong kind of attention."

Amara exhaled shakily, glancing at him. "I didn't ask for this."

"I know," he said. "But some people don't care about that."

She clenched her fists.

He was right.

And yet—why did it feel like no matter how much she tried to stay invisible, men like Lucas and Rafael always found a way to pull her into their games?

By the time she got back to her apartment, exhaustion clung to her bones.

She collapsed onto the couch, not even bothering to change out of her clothes.

Her head still ached.

Her fingers hovered over her phone before she hesitated.

Should she?

Would he even respond?

Still, something inside her told her to type.

Amara: You saw?

Minutes passed.

Then—

Mystery Man: I see everything.

Her breath hitched.

She shouldn't be surprised.

He had been watching her from the beginning.

Amara: You said it wouldn't happen again.

A longer pause.

Then—

Mystery Man: I keep my promises.

Her fingers tightened around the phone.

Amara: What does that mean?

Another silence.

But this time, it wasn't because he didn't want to answer.

It was because something was already in motion.

Lucas Vance leaned against the bar counter, swirling the last of his drink in the glass.

His friends laughed around him, but he wasn't really listening.

He was still thinking about Rafael. About the way Aldridge had pinned him against the wall in front of the entire class, humiliating him, crushing his pride with nothing but words and a single display of strength.

No one did that to him.

No one.

He was still fuming when he and his friends finally stumbled out of the club, the night air thick with the scent of rain and cigarette smoke.

And then—

A sound.

Low. Rumbling.

A bike.

A single headlight sliced through the darkness ahead, its glow eerie, watching.

Lucas frowned.

"The hell…?"

The engine growled louder, vibrating through the ground.

Then—

It surged forward.

Straight for them.

Lucas barely had time to curse before he was yanked back by one of his friends, the bike screeching to a stop just inches from where he had stood.

Silence.

The biker didn't move.

Didn't speak.

But the weight of his presence was suffocating.

Lucas swallowed hard. "Who the fuck—"

The biker moved.

Fast.

A fist slammed into Lucas's stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. He stumbled back, coughing, gasping for breath.

His friends froze.

No one dared to step forward.

Lucas tried to recover, rage flickering in his eyes. "You—"

Another blow.

This time—a knee to his ribs.

A sharp grunt. Pain exploded through him.

He fell to his knees.

The biker crouched in front of him, tilting his head slightly. Lucas Vance had been humiliated before.

He'd been scolded by professors, rejected by girls who didn't know what was good for them, even outshined by richer, more powerful men.

But never—not once—had he been beaten.

And never in front of his own friends.

His jaw ached, his ribs burned, and every breath felt like a blade slicing through his lungs. He spat blood onto the pavement, glaring up at the dark figure standing over him.

The biker remained motionless, the glow of a nearby streetlamp catching the sleek black visor of his helmet, hiding his face.

Silent. Waiting.

His friends stood a few feet away, frozen, unsure whether to intervene or run.

"This guy's crazy," one of them muttered.

"Lucas, just leave it—"

Lucas wiped his mouth, his fingers shaking with rage. "Fuck. That."

He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly before regaining his balance. He wouldn't back down. Not in front of his friends. Not after what Rafael did to him earlier.

"You think you can just pull this shit?" Lucas spat. His voice was raw, hoarse from pain, but he forced himself to smirk. "You some kind of knight in shining armor for that bitch?"

The moment the word left his mouth, he regretted it.

Because the biker moved.

No warning. No hesitation.

A sharp crack echoed through the alley as a gloved fist slammed into Lucas's face.

His head snapped back, and for a split second, everything blurred. He barely registered the pain before another blow landed—this time to his stomach.

Lucas doubled over, gasping, but the biker didn't let him fall.

A ruthless hand fisted in his collar, yanking him upright, forcing him to look at the man who was destroying him.

"You think this is a joke?" The biker's voice was low, distorted through the helmet, but the rage in it was unmistakable.

Lucas gritted his teeth. "Screw you."

The biker exhaled, almost like a laugh.

Then he drove his knee straight into Lucas's gut.

Lucas collapsed.

His hands scrambled against the pavement as he choked, his lungs seizing, his ribs screaming.

His friends didn't move.

Didn't dare.

The biker crouched down, grabbing Lucas's face, forcing him to meet his hidden gaze.

"You think you can touch her?" he asked, voice deceptively calm.

Lucas wheezed, unable to answer.

The biker's grip tightened.

"You think there won't be consequences?"

Lucas tried to push him away, but he was too weak.

Another blow landed. This time to his temple.

The world tilted.

Lucas barely felt himself hit the ground.

Blood filled his mouth, his vision spinning.

The biker stood over him, unmoving, his presence suffocating.

Then—he reached into his jacket.

Lucas flinched, half-expecting a weapon.

But instead—

Click.

The flash of a camera.

A picture.

A message.

A reminder.

The biker pocketed his phone, tilting his head slightly.

"This was a warning," he said.

Then—without another word—he swung his leg over his bike, revved the engine, and disappeared into the night.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Lucas lay on the ground, gasping for air, his body aching, his pride shattered.

His friends didn't move for a long time.

Then, finally—

"Lucas," one of them muttered. "What the fuck just happened?"

Lucas groaned, rolling onto his side. "Shut up."

Another voice, hesitant. "Who the hell was that?"

Lucas didn't answer.

Because he didn't know.

But one thing was certain—

This wasn't over.

Not by a long shot.

Amara sat up when her phone vibrated again.

Another message.

Her fingers trembled as she opened it.

A picture.

Lucas—bruised, bloody, on his knees.

Her breath caught.

Then—another message.

Mystery Man: No one will ever touch you again.

A shiver crawled down her spine.

She should be afraid.

She should tell him to stop.

But the worst part?

She didn't.

She simply stared at the picture, at the proof that someone had fought for her.

That someone had claimed her without permission.

And deep down—somewhere she didn't want to admit—

She felt safe.

Even when she knew she shouldn't.

Across the city, Rafael Aldridge leaned back in his chair, swirling a glass of whiskey between his fingers.

The dim light of his study cast sharp shadows across his face, his sharp gray eyes gleaming with amusement as he scrolled through his phone.

The message had just come in.

A picture.

Lucas Vance—bruised, bloodied, destroyed.

Rafael exhaled a soft chuckle, tapping his finger against the screen.

Pathetic.

This was exactly what Lucas needed—a reminder of his place.

Rafael hadn't needed to lift a finger.

Someone else had done it for him.

Someone who had already made their move.

A smirk curled at the edge of his lips.

So, this mysterious biker wasn't just a ghost in the dark.

He was real.

A slow, deep satisfaction coiled in Rafael's chest.

Good.

Let him think he's won.

Let him think he has the upper hand.

Because Rafael Aldridge didn't need to play fair.

He didn't need to fight for what was his.

He simply took.

And when the time came—he'd remind this mystery man exactly who he was dealing with.

Another message flashed on his screen.

A single text.

Work is done.

Rafael exhaled, taking a slow sip of his drink.

His smile widened.

Perfect.

Now, it was his turn to make a move.