MINE TO BREAK

Chapter One

I've been running for eleven months, two weeks, and four days.

Not metaphorically. Actually running. In actual rain. In actual heels, because today was supposed to be an interview, not a life-or-death situation — but here we are.

The alley behind Fifth Street smells like wet concrete and something I don't want to think about. My heels skid on the first step, so I kick them off. Forty-dollar shoes. Gone. I don't look back.

Three men. That's how many I counted before I ran. Three is too many to fight and too many to reason with, so I ran. Survive first, feel bad about it later. That's the system. It's worked for eleven months, two weeks, and four days.

I burst out of the alley onto the main road.

The headlights hit me first.

Then the screech of tires.

I throw myself sideways, hit the asphalt with my hands and one knee, and the car stops close enough that I can feel the heat off the hood. Rain hammers the back of my neck. My palms are bleeding. I stay very still, crouched on the wet road, waiting to find out if I'm dead.

I'm not dead.

The car door opens.

I should run again. My legs know this. They just won't move.

He's tall. Not gym-tall or basketball-tall — built like someone who actually needs to be that size, like his body made a practical decision about it. Dark jacket, dark everything, rain already flattening his hair and he doesn't seem to notice. He looks at me the way people look at things that don't make sense yet.

Behind me, I hear the three men come out of the alley.

Then I hear them stop.

No shouting. No footsteps. Just — stop. Like someone pressed pause on all three of them at once.

The man in front of me doesn't look at them. He keeps looking at me.

"Get in the car," he says.

His voice is quiet. Not soft — quiet. Like he's never had to repeat himself in his life.

"I don't get into strangers' cars." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. Eleven months of practice.

"You do tonight."

I should say no. I should run sideways, lose him in the streets, find a crowd. I know how to disappear. I've been doing it since October.

I look back at the three men.

They're standing at the mouth of the alley. Not moving. One of them has his hand frozen halfway to his jacket, like he changed his mind mid-thought. All three staring at the man behind me with an expression I've seen before on different faces in different cities.

Fear. Clean and simple.

I get in the car.

He doesn't speak for six blocks.

I sit with my bleeding hands in my lap and watch the city go by and try to calculate whether I've made things better or worse. The car smells like leather and something underneath it, something darker that makes my brain go quiet in a way I don't have words for. Not calming. More like — I've been running so long I forgot what still felt like. And now I remember. And I hate that I remember, because it means I was missing it.

I press my palms together harder.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Somewhere safe."

"That's what people say right before somewhere not safe."

He glances at me. Once. Back to the road.

"You were being followed by three armed men," he says.

"I know."

"You knew. And you were in heels."

"They were good heels." I look out the window. "Before."

Something shifts in his expression. Not quite a smile. Gone too fast to be sure.

Then —

"Sierra," he says.

I go still.

I didn't tell him my name.

"How do you—"

"You're bleeding on my seat."

I look down. He's right. My left palm, worse than I thought. I press it against my jeans.

"How do you know my name?" I ask again.

He doesn't answer. He takes a left, then another, and we're leaving the lit streets behind, moving into something quieter and darker, and I should care about that more than I do. I should be counting exits and calculating distances and thinking about the weight of the door handle under my fingers.

Instead I'm watching his hands on the wheel.

Still. Completely still. Like nothing in the world could make them tighten.

"Who are you?"

The question sits in the car between us.

He pulls into an underground garage. Parks. Kills the engine.

Then he turns and looks at me — really looks — and this is the first time I've seen his face clearly in actual light. And I think I've seen something like him before. Not him specifically. Something about the way he holds the air around him. The certainty of him. Like the concept of doubt just doesn't apply.

My mother used to look at certain people and say: that one isn't like us.

I used to think she was being dramatic.

"You're safe here," he says.

"You keep saying that."

"Because it keeps being true."

"Prove it."

He opens his door. Gets out. Walks around to mine and opens it. Steps back. Gives me space I didn't ask for — but apparently needed, because the tightness in my chest loosens, just slightly.

I climb out.

"My name is Draven," he says.

He says it like I should recognize it. Like most people do and I'm the exception.

I don't recognize it.

But something in my blood does something strange. A slow pull, low and specific, like a sound just below hearing. I've been cold and wet and running for forty minutes and my skin is suddenly, inexplicably warm.

I hate that.

I hate that more than anything else that's happened tonight.

"Okay, Draven." I meet his eyes. "Why do three armed men freeze when they see your face?"

He looks at me for a long moment.

"Get inside. I'll explain what I can."

What I can.

Not everything. Not what you need. What he can.

I follow him anyway.

Later — much later — I'll decide if that was brave or just stupid.

Tonight I'm just done running.