I woke slowly—like my body was scared to let me be awake again.
Everything ached. My limbs felt like they didn't belong to me. My head pounded, and the air felt… too clean. Too calm. Not the cold, smelly motel room I had collapsed in last night.
My eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, I didn't recognize anything.
The bed beneath me was enormous—soft, warm, like it had never known struggle. Crisp white sheets. Pillows that cradled rather than fought back. The room was large, polished, and glowing with quiet elegance.
This wasn't mine. None of this was mine.
Where am I?
I sat up, groaning. Pain laced down my spine. My neck screamed when I touched it. The bruises from Jake—the monster—were real, and fresh, and blooming like poisonous flowers across my skin.
But the memories came rushing in.
The alley.
The smell of that damn cologne.
Jake's hand over my mouth.
My scream.
The voice that cut through it all—calm, steady, foreign.
Sabastain.
The man from the shadows. The one who pulled Jake off me and didn't flinch.
I looked around again, this time taking in the full space. High ceilings. Tall windows framed by deep blue curtains. A mirror leaned against the wall near a sleek glass door that opened onto a small balcony. Gold trim. Art on the walls. There was a stillness here—elegant, but intimidating. It was the kind of place that didn't belong to someone like me.
I looked down at myself. My clothes were still rumpled and stained. My skin smelled like fear and blood.
I shouldn't be here.
A small tray sat on the nightstand beside me. Water. A bottle of painkillers. A folded note.
For pain relief. Take two—S.
I stared at the note for a long moment. Then I smiled, even though it hurt to move my face.
It had been years since anyone cared enough to leave me medicine and a kind word.
I took the pills, downed the water, and moved slowly to the bathroom.
The shower was warm. Healing. I scrubbed until my skin felt raw. I came out of the shower, wearing the bath robe that hugged on the wall, when my reflection in the mirror startled me. Pale skin. Shadowed eyes. Red marks down my throat.
I wore the clean polo that was set aside for me, laced with a rich expensive perfume, pulled my hair forward to hide what I could, slung my bag over my shoulder, and stepped out of the room.
The hallway outside looked like a hotel. Polished floors. Subtle lights. Everything whispered wealth and silence. I walked quietly, unsure where I was going or if I was even supposed to be wandering.
Then I heard it—laughter.
Men's voices. Deep, full of teasing and something... warm. Familiar in a way that felt distant to me.
I followed the sound until I found a wide, open living space. I stayed just out of view, hiding behind a decorative pillar.
Three men were inside.
The resemblance was uncanny—tall, sharp features, jet-black hair. Their postures were different: one lounged with a drink in hand, one sat upright on the couch, and the third leaned against a bar counter, silent but watchful.
I couldn't tell which man saved me from Jake last night
I should've walked in. Introduced myself. But instead... I watched. I listened. Maybe I wanted to know who these people were before they knew me. Maybe I was still too scared to be seen.
"Anika only called to check when you'd be home," one of the seated ones laughed, his voice loud and clear. "And Stefan practically dropped his glass. 'Babe, I can explain!' he said. You should've seen his face."
"She's unpredictable," the man called Stefan groaned. "You know what pregnancy hormones are like. One minute she's crying, the next she's throwing a shoe."
"And you're scared of both," the other chimed in.
The watchful one chuckled quietly from the bar, sipping from his glass.
It was such a strange moment.
Three powerful-looking men in a designer room, laughing about phone calls and marriage and baby hormones like it was the most important thing in the world.
And somehow... I wanted to be in the room. Not hidden in the shadows.
I stepped back and accidentally bumped into a small sculpture behind me.
The thunk was just loud enough.
The room went silent.
I froze on the staircase leading down into the living room, halfway between vanishing and being noticed.
All three heads turned.
One of them let out a low whistle.
"Well, look who decided to wake up."
My cheeks flushed instantly. I hated attention. I hated eyes on me. But Sabastain's expression was unreadable—curious, not unkind. His eyes softened as they scanned my bruised face.
"You're up," he said gently. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a car," I muttered.
"Close," Storm added with a grin. "More like a trash fire in a back alley."
"Storm," Sabastain warned, voice clipped.
"What? She's alive. She can take a joke."
"Barely," I murmured.
"I'm Chole," I added quickly, fidgeting with the strap of my bag. "I guess I didn't exactly get to introduce myself properly… yesterday."
"You didn't need to," Sabastain said. "You were scared. That's enough."
The way he said it—you were scared—felt like permission. Like he saw it and didn't judge it.
"These are my twin brothers," he added. "Stefan and Storm
Storm gave a dramatic bow. "And you're welcome, by the way. I'm the charming one."
Stefan rolled his eyes. "Don't mind him. His brain is 90% hair gel and sarcasm."
They were ridiculous.
But they made me smile. And after last night, that felt like a miracle.
"You should eat something," Sabastain said, nodding toward a side hallway. "I made breakfast".
I descended the remaining stairs, aware of every step, every glance. The one who had been the target of the teasing—Stefan, if I remembered correctly—gave me a sympathetic smile as I passed.
"Don't mind them," he said. "They're like overgrown children."
"I noticed," I replied, surprising myself with a small smile.
Sabastain guided me to the long kitchen island, where a full breakfast had been laid out—eggs, toast, fruit, pastries. It looked like something out of a five-star hotel.
My stomach growled at the sight.
"Help yourself," he said.
I hesitated. "I don't want to intrude…"
"You're not," he said gently. "You were attacked. You deserve food. And rest."
That last part caught in my throat. Deserve. I hadn't heard that word applied to me in a long time.
Storm and Stefan were still nearby, but their conversation had dropped to quiet murmurs, leaving Sabastain and me in a kind of bubble.
I sat, slowly picking up a slice of toast, unsure if my hands were shaking from hunger or nerves. Probably both.
"Where am I, exactly?" I finally asked.
Sabastain leaned back against the counter. "My home. Outside the city.
I nodded slowly, taking that in.
I bit into the toast, chewing slowly. Then I glanced at him again. "Did he… Jake… is he—?"
"He got away," Sabastain said, his tone shifting. "But I doubt he'll come back anytime soon. If he does… he'll regret it."
The steel in his voice was chilling—and comforting.
"Thank you," I murmured.
"You don't have to thank me," he said. "No one should go through what you did."
I looked down at my plate, the edges of shame curling in my stomach. But then I felt him move, taking the stool beside me, his voice quieter now.
"I know what it's like," he said. "To feel trapped. To feel hunted."
I turned to look at him, surprised. There was something raw in his expression, like he was speaking from a wound that had never quite healed.
"I lost someone," he continued. "A long time ago. And I promised myself I wouldn't let it happen again."
A silence stretched between us, heavy but not uncomfortable.
He didn't ask for my story. He didn't push. And that made me want to tell him everything.
But I couldn't. Not yet.
"I'm not used to this," I admitted quietly.
"To what?" he asked.
"To kindness."
Sabastain's gaze softened. "Then get used to it."
And for the first time in what felt like forever, I believed maybe I could.