part 2 : the protector

It wasn't just his eyes that haunted her. It was the weight of his presence, always there, always watching.

Fiona hadn't known his name—still didn't—but that wasn't what kept her awake at night. It was the way he moved through her life like a predator, patient and relentless. Never too close, never too far. Always on the edge of her reality, like a storm waiting to break.

For weeks, he stayed just out of reach, a flicker in her peripheral vision. At first, it felt like paranoia. A glance caught in a crowd, a figure standing too still on the other side of the street. She brushed it off, convinced it was nothing more than coincidence. But soon, it wasn't coincidence anymore. The dread bloomed in her chest, quiet and suffocating.

He wasn't just following her. He was waiting.

The night everything changed was like any other. The moon was thin and sharp in the sky, casting a silver glow on the empty streets. Fiona took a turn too early, finding herself in a narrow alley tucked between two old buildings. It was a shortcut she'd taken before, but tonight the air felt thick, wrong.

Her heels clicked against the cobblestone, too loud in the silence. The alley stretched ahead of her, empty except for the flicker of a distant neon sign. She didn't hear him at first. The footsteps behind her—steady, deliberate—weren't immediately noticeable. But then, there were only three steps. Then nothing.

Fiona turned.

Nothing.

Then a thud.

A grunt.

Her stomach dropped as she spun again. She wasn't alone anymore.

The man she'd seen in fleeting moments was standing in the shadows, his eyes gleaming in the half-light. But it wasn't the eyes that made her freeze. It was the man on the ground—his body twisted, clutching his ribs, groaning in pain. The man she didn't even know was following her was on the ground, broken.

The one who'd been lurking in the corners of her world stood above him, calm as death itself. Blood painted his knuckles, dark and sticky, gleaming in the dim light. His face was set, impassive. As if this was a regular Tuesday for him.

He didn't look at the man on the ground.

He looked at her.

"Go home, little dove," he said, his voice rough, like gravel ground against stone. Cold, yet smooth. Commanding, but low—a warning masked in a whisper.

And Fiona stood, paralyzed.

Her heart hammered against her chest as his words sank in. Little dove. The nickname dripped from his mouth like he had a right to claim her. Like he knew her—had always known her—and had decided, in that moment, that she belonged to him.

It wasn't just fear she felt. There was something more twisted in her gut, something that made her knees feel weak. Fascination? Maybe. Or maybe it was something far darker. Something that made her blood burn when he stared at her with those eyes—those eyes that owned her.

She didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there, caught in his gaze. And when he turned and disappeared into the shadows, she felt it—his presence, still there—clinging to her like smoke.

She went home that night.

But it wasn't the same.

Sleep never came, and when she closed her eyes, all she could hear was his voice. The way he'd called her little dove. Like she was something fragile, something that belonged to him.

And it made her sick.

It made her crave more.

The storm was coming, and she could already feel it in her bones.