Page 85 of Mine To Hunt

"I’m serious."

"I know."

Her expression softens again. "Good. Now go before I follow you home like a bodyguard."

I smile, a real one this time, and turn toward the street, carrying a small piece of her warmth with me.

I choose the alley because it is faster, and I want to reach home before it gets completely dark. The moment I step into it, I regret the decision. The narrow passage smells of damp concrete, stale alcohol, and old garbage that has been sitting too long in the corners.

A weak streetlight flickers overhead, buzzing softly, its pale glow barely touching the ground. Shadows cling to the walls like stains, stretching long and thin across the pavement. My footsteps echo louder than they should, the sound bouncing off the brick and making the alley feel even emptier than it already is.

I walk faster, hugging my coat tighter around myself. Every small noise suddenly feels amplified, the crunch of something brittle under my shoe, the faint drip of water from a pipe somewhere above, the distant hum of traffic from the main road. My pulse begins to quicken for no clear reason except the growing feeling that I should not be here.

Then laughter breaks the silence. It is low, uneven, and thick with alcohol. My stomach drops as shapes begin to separate from the darkness ahead.

One man steps forward, then another, and another, until there are seven or eight of them spreading out slowly, forming a loose circle. Their movements are unsteady but deliberate, like they have all the time in the world.

The smell hits me before they even speak, sharp liquor, sweat, and smoke clinging to their clothes. One of them grins, showing stained teeth, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Well, look what wandered in." He says, his words slurred but amused.

I instinctively step back, but another figure shifts behind me, blocking the path I came from. My chest tightens instantly. I glance around, searching for a gap, a space, any opening, but there isn’t one. They are already too close.

A rough hand clamps around my wrist. I gasp and try to pull away, but his grip tightens, fingers digging painfully into my skin. Panic sparks through me like electricity.

"Let me go." I say, my voice shaking despite my effort to steady it. "Please. Just leave me alone."

They laugh. The sound is ugly and thick, hanging in the air like smoke.

Another man reaches out and brushes his hand along my shoulder, his touch slow and deliberate, as if he is testing how far he can go. My heart slams harder, each beat pounding against my ribs so violently I can feel it in my throat.

"Relax." One of them mutters. "We just want to talk."

I try to twist free again, but the man holding me yanks me closer instead, making me stumble. A different hand reaches for the collar of my coat, fingers grazing the side of my neck. Tears sting my eyes, hot and humiliating, but fear burns hotter.

"I said let go!" My voice cracks, rising helplessly. "Someone help me!"

For a brief second, nothing happens. Then the sound of a motorcycle engine cuts through the alley.

It starts as a distant growl, low and faint, but it grows quickly, louder, deeper, closer, until the vibration seems to travel through the pavement and into my bones.

The men hesitate, their laughter faltering as bright headlights suddenly burst into view at the far end of the alley. The light is blinding against the darkness, swallowing the shadows as it rushes toward us.

The bike stops only a few feet away with a deep, controlled rumble.

The rider sits still for a moment, engine idling steadily. Then he removes his helmet. It’s Dr. Nathaniel.

His expression is not angry. Not rushed. Not panicked. It is calm. Cold. Controlled.

His eyes move slowly over the men surrounding me, and something in his gaze shifts the air itself, like pressure dropping before a storm. He does not raise his voice when he speaks.

"Get on the bike, Iris."

There is no urgency in his tone, no visible tension, just quiet authority that leaves no room for hesitation.

I do not hesitate. I pull my wrist free while their attention is on him and hurry toward the motorcycle, my legs trembling beneath me. Relief and leftover terror swirl together inside my chest as I climb on behind him and wrap my arms tightly around his waist. His body is warm beneath my fingers, solid and grounding, and I cling to it as if it is the only stable thing left in the world.

He does not say a word to the men. He simply turns his head slightly and gives them one sharp, icy look. It is enough.