5. Blood & Broken Things

*Aira’s mind was a shattered thing.*

The gunshot still echoed in her skull, a sharp, metallic scream that had carved itself into her bones. She could smell the blood—copper and salt, clinging to her skin like a second shadow.

Ruhan carried her through the penthouse as if she weighed nothing.

*I jumped. I ran. A man is dead.*

The thoughts came in fractured pieces, sharp enough to cut.

Her body had gone numb somewhere between the alley and the elevator. Now, curled against Ruhan’s chest, she felt nothing but the steady drum of his heartbeat beneath her ear.

*Too calm.*

A killer’s pulse.

He set her down on the bathroom counter, the marble cold through her thin leggings. She didn’t resist as he turned on the faucet, testing the water temperature with his fingers.

*Those fingers just pulled a trigger.*

The absurdity of it almost made her laugh. Almost.

“Look at me.” His voice was low, commanding.

She didn’t.

His hand caught her chin, forcing her gaze up. The bathroom lights were too bright, carving his face into harsh angles—the scar under his eye, the faint stubble along his jaw, the dark, endless pits of his eyes.

*Monsters shouldn’t be beautiful.*

“You’re in shock,” he observed.

She swallowed. “I’ve never watched someone die before.”

A lie.

She remembered the way her mother’s breath had rattled in her chest, the way her fingers had gone limp in Aira’s small hands. *That* had been death, too. Slow. Quiet.

This had been anything but.

Ruhan’s thumb brushed her cheek, smearing a tear she hadn’t realized had fallen. “He would have sliced you open from navel to throat.”

*And whose fault is that?*

The words burned on her tongue, but she bit them back.

He reached for the hem of her shirt.

Aira flinched.

Ruhan paused. “I’m checking for injuries.”

“I’m fine.”

“You jumped between buildings.”

“And you *murdered* a man.”

Something flickered in his gaze—something dark and unreadable. Then, slowly, he stepped back. “Strip. Wash. There are clothes in the cabinet.”

She didn’t move.

He turned to leave.

“Why?” The word tore from her throat, ragged and raw.

Ruhan glanced over his shoulder.

“Why *save* me?” Her fingers dug into the marble. “You don’t even *know* me.”

For a long moment, he was silent. Then—

“Because no one else will.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

**The shower scalded.**

Aira stood under the spray until her skin turned red, until the water ran clear of blood and dirt and the phantom touch of death.

She scrubbed until her nails left pink trails over her arms.

*Stupid. Reckless. Weak.*

The thoughts were a familiar chorus, one she’d carried since childhood. But now, they had new verses.

*You ran. You failed. A man is dead because of you.*

She turned off the water.

The mirror was fogged when she stepped out, her reflection blurred beyond recognition. She wiped it clean with a trembling hand.

The girl who stared back was a stranger.

Pale. Hollow-eyed. A ghost wearing her face.

*This is what fear looks like.*

She dressed mechanically—soft cotton pants, an oversized sweater that swallowed her frame. The fabric smelled like lavender.

*How did he know?*

The question gnawed at her.

She opened the bathroom door.

Ruhan stood on the other side, leaning against the wall as if he’d been waiting. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing corded forearms and the edge of a black tattoo.

And blood.

A slow trickle of crimson dripped from his wrist, splattering onto the hardwood.

Aira froze. “You’re hurt.”

He didn’t even glance down. “It’s nothing.”

“You’re *bleeding*.”

“And you’re shaking.”

She was.

Her hands fisted at her sides. “Let me see.”

A beat of silence. Then, with a sigh, he extended his arm.

A gash ran along his forearm, deep enough to show glimpses of muscle beneath.

*The knife.*

She remembered the glint of metal in the alley, the way the hooded man had lunged—

*Not at me.*

*At him.*

Her breath caught. “He was aiming for you.”

Ruhan’s lips curled. “Finally putting it together, little sparrow.”

She reached for his wrist. His skin was fever-hot under her fingers, his pulse steady despite the blood loss.

*This man doesn’t fear anything.*

“You need stitches,” she muttered.

“I’ve had worse.”

She dragged him to the living room, ignoring his amused smirk. The first aid kit was stocked like a trauma center—sutures, antiseptic, even a slim bottle of whiskey.

*Of course.*

She cleaned the wound in silence, her fingers steady despite the storm inside her.

Ruhan watched her, his gaze heavy. “You’ve done this before.”

“My mother was sick.” She didn’t look up. “I learned early.”

His jaw tightened.

She threaded the needle. “This will hurt.”

He laughed, low and rough. “I doubt that.”

She sewed the skin together with quick, precise movements. His breath never hitched. His muscles never tensed.

*Like he’s made of stone.*

When she finished, she bandaged the wound with more force than necessary.

Ruhan flexed his hand, testing the pull of the stitches. “Not bad.”

She stood abruptly. “Why was he after *you*?”