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He was too strong.
Then, the man’s hand landed on her bare arm, bringing with it an intense, searing pain that shot through her, making her cry out. Her voice echoed off the alley walls.
No one came.
No one heard her screams, or no one cared enough.
She was on her own.
There was something foreign and unbearable on her skin where his hand was. Faint, swirly symbols etched into her flesh, spreading from her arm to the rest of her body. Their golden glow quickly faded away until only light traces remained, and then—nothing. No pain and no marks.
Panic gripped her, fueling her uncoordinated movements. Anthea’s words came out slurred, a mix of curses and pleas for the man to let her go.
“I am sorry,” he said. “But this is necessary. I must do this. I see it now . . . this has to happen. You have to save her!” He pushed his palm to her forehead, muttering something in a language she couldn’t understand. A wave of blinding hot pain coursed through her. More terrible than anything she had ever felt before: her mind felt like it was being torn to pieces.
She screamed.
Again.
And again.
Through her pain, Anthea almost believed she had started to understand the words he was saying.
Then, she felt him push something hard and cold into her hand: the claw-like pendant from his neck. As soon as her fingers closed around it, his grip loosened.
Anthea backed away, dull throbbing in her head. Her breaths were labored, panic blurring her vision. What had he done to her? Who was he? How did he know her name?
“And now, I can finally rest,” he said, drawing a large knife from his hip, the blade gleaming under the dim streetlights. With a swift swipe, he moved the knife across his throat.
Blood—there was so much blood.
His body collapsed onto the cold, hard pavement with an eerie thud.
Anthea placed her hands to her mouth in silent horror. A wave of nausea washed over her as she backed further away from the gruesome sight. Her mind raced, horror and shock vying for dominance.
She needed to leave.
Now.
With every ounce of strength she could muster, she forced herself to look forward, and not at the bloody corpse behind her.
Anthea couldn’t help herself—she glanced back.
It was still there: glassy eyes staring after her.
Suddenly, her world tilted—the heel of her boot had caught on an uneven patch of sidewalk. Anthea flailed her arms in a futile attempt to regain her balance, bracing herself for the harsh collision with the concrete. The claw was hot in her hand.
The impact didn’t come.
She felt as if she was floating somewhere in between, her heart racing in a desperate bid to keep up with the surreal experience.
Then, with a heart-stopping jolt, she was falling. A piercing scream escaped her lips, and she closed her hand tighter around the claw, as if it was her lifeline, as if it would ground her.
After what felt like an eternity, her body made contact with something warm, firm, and decidedly not the asphalt.
A gruff exclamation—more surprise than pain, came from beneath her, followed by a jolt as she was abruptly spun around. A sharp, cold object dug into her throat, making her freeze.
The body beneath her stiffened—a broad form, and undeniably male. His chest rose and fell in a harsh rhythm against her back. She could feel the silky strands of what she assumed was his hair tickling her arm.
