I didn't wait.
I stabbed him again.
The sound he made wasn't pain.
It was anger—raw, shocked outrage.
"You—little—"
His hand shot out violently before I could move.
My back slammed into the brick wall so hard the air punched out of my lungs.
My head whiplashed, pain exploding across my skull, vision blurring at the edges.
His fingers wrapped around my throat—
tight—
merciless—
lifting me onto my toes.
"You filthy—"
his voice snarled against my ear,
"little—lying—bitch—"
My vision went blue.
Then black.
Then blue again.
My fingers clawed at his wrist, at his arm, at the wall—
anything—
anything for air.
My knife slipped from my hand, clattering uselessly to the ground.
My mouth opened but no sound came.
Just choking breaths, thin and breaking.
His face was inches from mine, twisted with fury, chestnut hair falling over his eyes, blood from my stab staining his shirt.
"You think you can kill me?" he hissed, tightening his grip.
"You think you can run from me? You belong to—"
And the world around me began to flicker.
Dark spots danced in my vision.
My body went weak, heavy, numb.
I felt myself slipping—
and I thought—
This is it.
This is really it.
I'm going to die here.
In this dirty alley.
By his hand again.
My fingertips dragged against his arm uselessly—
—and my consciousness wavered on the edge of breaking.
____
Everything was dark at first.
Not the peaceful kind of dark—
the heavy, suffocating, drowning-in-water kind.
Voices floated in and out.
Footsteps.
Doors opening then closing.
Someone calling my name far away.
Then nothing again.
A cold shock ran through my chest and I sucked in a breath so sharp it felt like knives.
My eyes opened.
White ceiling.
Soft blanket.
A familiar smell—cheap detergent, my roommate's vanilla body spray.
My dorm.
I blinked hard, my throat burning as I forced myself to sit up.
My head throbbed.
My neck felt raw.
There was a bandage on my temple I didn't remember receiving.
I looked around, disoriented.
Then my roommate rushed in, eyes wide.
"Oh my god, you're awake—finally."
My lips parted, but no sound came.
She sat beside me, grabbing my hand tightly.
"You scared us! We thought you fainted on the stairs or something— you were just lying outside the dorm entrance!"
My heart dropped.
My stomach twisted painfully.
"What… what do you mean?" I whispered, voice cracked.
She pushed hair from my face gently.
"A guy brought you. He carried you all the way here. We thought he was your boyfriend or something…"
Every breath inside me froze.
My fingers tightened around the bedsheet.
"Wh… what did he look like?"
I already knew.
The dread was already crawling up my spine, cold and merciless.
My friend thought for a moment.
"Tall. Wearing black. He looked… um… kind of scary? But also expensive? His hair was—"
"Chestnut," I whispered before she could finish.
She blinked.
"Yeah… how did you know?"
My whole body went numb.
Aiden.
He didn't kill me.
He carried me here.
He cleaned the blood from my face.
He brought me home like I was something he owned and didn't want ruined.
My friend kept talking, but the sound faded into a distant echo.
All I could hear was his voice from the alley—
"You belong to—"
I pressed a trembling hand against my throat, as if I could still feel his fingers wrapped around it.
I wasn't safe.
Not even unconsciousness freed me.
He found me.
He touched me.
He carried me back.
And he let me wake up.
Which meant one thing—
one horrifying, unmistakable thing:
He wasn't done with me yet.
_____
Days passed, but my body still hadn't learned how to stop trembling.
Every time a door shut behind me on campus, my shoulders jerked violently.
Every metallic thud from construction across the street made my breaths stumble.
Even the sound of a bike exhaust popping sent my heart racing into my throat.
I hid it well. I had to. I didn't tell my friends, didn't tell my professors, didn't even tell myself fully. But each day while walking back to the dorm, I kept glancing over my shoulder. My fingers always hovered near my phone, ready to dial anyone—anyone—if I heard footsteps behind me.
The days felt longer.
The nights felt louder.
And the fear stayed.
Then came the final exam day.
If I passed today, I could go home. I could disappear again for a while. I kept repeating that as I walked out of the university gates.
The campus road was warm with afternoon sun. Students laughed, others dragged their bags, everyone looked tired but relieved. I also tried to smile, tried to breathe—
Then I smelled smoke.
A slow exhale of cigarette smoke drifted across the road like a warning.
I turned my head once… and froze.
He was standing near the lamp post.
No knife wound on his chest anymore.
No limp.
No weakness.
Just him—upright, calm, holding a bouquet of black roses mixed with darker flowers… like he was attending a funeral. My funeral.
He lifted the bouquet slightly when our eyes met, as if greeting me.
My legs immediately weakened. They hurt even before I moved. I couldn't run forever—not from someone like him. I felt that reality punching me deep inside my ribs.
He stepped forward.
I stepped back, but my feet dragged. My legs were so stiff with fear they almost buckled.
He came closer, close enough that his shadow fell over mine on the pavement.
"Don't run," he murmured, voice disturbingly gentle. "You'll hurt your legs more."
I stared at him. My throat tightened. My chest shook.
He watched my fear carefully… almost tenderly. Then he tilted his head.
"I scared you last time," he said softly. "The kidnapping. I'm… sorry for that."
For a moment the world went silent.
Sorry?
He's apologizing?
I actually blinked, my mind refusing to accept it. My ears rang, making it feel like a dream—or a nightmare pretending to be a dream.
He continued while my voice remained stuck in my chest.
"I didn't want to do it," he said. "But I was ordered to kidnap you."
Ordered…?
My stomach clenched, but he didn't stop.
"And then…" His eyes lowered for a second, almost shy, almost boyish. "I fell in love with you."
My heartbeat slammed painfully.
His voice softened even more, like he was convinced he was confessing something romantic.
"I know you don't like me," he said. "I know you're scared of me." His fingers brushed the petals of the dark roses. "But give me a chance. Let me woo you. Just a chance."
My lips parted, but no sound came.
I was terrified.
Not confused—terrified.
Because somehow, this was worse than the violence.
This false softness.
This delusion he had wrapped himself in.
He stepped even closer, standing so near I could feel his breath.
"You don't have to answer now," he whispered. "Just don't run from me."
My heart hammered so hard I felt it in my throat.
I didn't know the truth about Aiden's look-alike.
I didn't know two versions of him existed.
I didn't even know which one was standing before me now.
All I knew was this—
I couldn't run.
I couldn't refuse.
I couldn't fight him.
So I stood frozen, legs aching, lungs shaking, while the predator I feared gently held out a bouquet of black flowers and asked me to let him love me.