Nyx Everhart's breaths came in ragged, uneven gasps as she forced herself forward, each step feeling heavier than the last. The night air was cruel against her bare arms and legs, but she welcomed the sting. It meant she was still alive. It meant she had made it out.
The distant city lights blurred in her vision, her body on the verge of shutting down. She hadn't eaten in five days—not since she had stolen a piece of bread from Severin's kitchen, a crime for which she had paid dearly. He had whipped her until she bled, then locked her in a dark room, leaving her with nothing but cold walls and the crushing weight of despair.
But she had escaped.
She didn't know how far she had run. She only knew that she couldn't stop. If she stopped, he would find her. If she stopped, he would drag her back.
And this time, she wouldn't survive.
Her feet—bare, raw, and bleeding—stumbled over the pavement as she pushed forward. The bruises on her ribs ached with every breath. Her dress, the only thing covering her fragile body, hung loosely, torn in places from her desperate escape through alleyways and broken fences. The world around her swayed.
Her body was failing.
Then she saw it—the neon glow of a club sign flickering ahead, its vibrant colors piercing the darkness.
A club meant people.
People meant safety.
Maybe.
Nyx staggered toward it, the last shreds of her strength slipping away. Just a few more steps. Just a little closer.
Her vision blurred, and before she could take another breath, the ground rushed up to meet her.
Then, there was nothing.
Raphael Devereux adjusted the cuffs of his tailored black shirt as he stepped out of the club, the deep bass fading behind him. The night air was cool against his skin, a stark contrast to the heat and energy of the place he was leaving behind.
It had been an uneventful evening. A few conversations. Some familiar faces. Nothing that held his interest. He wasn't in the mood for games tonight.
As he moved toward his car, something unusual caught his eye.
A small figure, barely visible in the dim streetlights, lay motionless on the pavement near the club entrance.
His steps slowed.
Something in his gut told him this wasn't just a drunken passerby who had too much to drink. There was something wrong.
He moved closer.
The first thing he noticed was how delicate she was—thin, fragile, like a doll that had been tossed aside. Her long dark hair was tangled, partially covering her face. She was trembling, her breathing shallow.
Then, as his gaze trailed lower, he saw them.
The bruises. The welts.
Raphael crouched beside her, his sharp eyes scanning the marks on her skin.
These weren't just any wounds.
They were precise. Deliberate. The kind left by a skilled hand. The kind that came from a whip meant for submission.
A BDSM whip.
His jaw tightened.
He had been in this world long enough to know the difference between consensual pain and cruelty. This? This was the latter.
Someone had done this to her. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
A quiet rage burned in his chest.
He reached out, carefully brushing the hair from her face. Her skin was cold, far too cold. Her lips were dry, cracked from dehydration.
She needed help.
Without hesitation, Raphael shrugged off his coat and draped it over her frail body, shielding her from the night air. She barely reacted.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath.
This girl had been through hell.
Gently, he slid his arms beneath her, lifting her with ease. She was far too light—like someone who hadn't had a proper meal in weeks. Her head lolled against his chest as he carried her toward his car, his grip firm but careful.
As he settled her into the passenger seat, buckling her in, he took another glance at her.
She was beautiful, even in her battered state. But there was something else. Something beneath the bruises and the exhaustion.
A fighter.
Whoever had done this to her had tried to break her.
And judging by the fact that she was lying here, outside and alone, she had fought back.
He shut the car door, moving around to the driver's side.
One thing was certain.
Whoever had hurt her would never lay a hand on her again.