Falling for my Saviour

005: she will fight for survival

Aria Blake

The quiet didn’t last long.

The first sound was the alarm

a hard, metallic scream that split the dark. Red light bled through the crack under my door and painted the room in flashes.

It started with a noise I couldn’t name, deep and distant, something heavy slamming against a wall or floor somewhere far below. At first I thought it was part of a dream, one of those half–memories that crawl back into your head when the night is too quiet. Then it came again, louder this time, and the glass on the nightstand shook. I sat up before I even realized I was awake.

For a few long seconds there was only silence, thick and waiting, and then the whole house came alive at once.

Then I heard them.

Boots. Voices. The sound of men moving fast. The rhythm of the steps was rough and sharp, nothing calm about it. Someone barked an order short, hard, urgent. Another answered. Then came the first gunshot, a dull, heavy crack that rolled through the walls.

I froze.

Another gunshot followed, then another, faster, closer. I could hear something fall a table, a body, I didn’t know. The air itself seemed to hum, and with every echo I felt my skin tighten.

No, not again. Not this.

I pushed myself out of bed, feet hitting the cold tile. My hands were shaking so badly I could hear my own bracelets clicking together. I went to the door, pressed my ear against it. More footsteps. More shouts. Someone yelled something about a breach. Someone else swore.

My mind kept racing I didn’t want to think about what was going on out there all I knew was that I had to get out .

Then I moved closer to the door to listen and the lock on my door clicked. Metal sliding, sealing.

My stomach turned to ice. I grabbed the handle, pulled, pushed, but it didn’t move. Another click came from above me, a mechanical hum like something coming to life. The ceiling lights turned red and dim, the kind of light that makes you feel like you’re inside a wound.

I could taste fear in my mouth dry, bitter, metallic.

I stumbled back, hit the dresser. The alarm kept wailing, shrill and endless. I tried to breathe slow, but it didn’t help. The air felt too heavy to swallow. I caught sight of myself in the mirror hair wild, eyes wide, mouth open like I’d forgotten how to breathe and I didn’t even look human.

There was a glass of water on the table. I grabbed it, needing something to hold, something that wasn’t panic, but it slipped straight through my hand and shattered against the floor. The sound made me flinch hard enough that my knees gave out for a second. Water spread around my feet. Shards sparkled like tiny blades in the red light.

“Let me out!” My voice came out raw, rough, like it hadn’t been used in years. “Do you hear me? I said let me out!”

Nobody answered. Just the alarm and the distant thud of guns.

I bent down, picked up a piece of glass. The edge bit into my skin immediately. The sting made everything else fade for a moment. I didn’t even care that blood was dripping onto the floor. I just needed something real, something to fight with, even if I didn’t know who I was fighting.

Outside, the noise got worse. Running, shouting, the sharp metallic clatter of magazines being reloaded. I could hear radios hissing, doors banging, furniture sliding. The whole house sounded like it was tearing itself apart.

Then, suddenly, someone pounded on my door.

“Miss?” A man’s voice. Not shouting careful, unsure. “You all right in there?”

I didn’t answer. My heart was in my throat, pounding so loud it drowned everything else out.

The lock turned. A click, then the door creaked open just enough for light to spill through the crack.

He stepped inside slowly, tall, dressed in black, his gun pointed at the ground. “Everything’s okay,” he said, voice low. “You’re safe. Just stay where you are.”

That word. Safe.

It snapped something in me.

I lunged before I could think. The shard in my hand flashed once under the red light and cut straight across his cheek. He shouted, tried to grab me, but I was already moving again, swinging, hitting, fighting with everything that had been trapped inside me for years.

He caught my wrist. I twisted, yanked free, slashed again. The glass broke in half, slicing my palm. Hot pain shot up my arm, but I didn’t stop. His blood splattered across my sleeve.

“Stop—damn it!” he shouted.

There were more footsteps outside now, fast ones. Voices yelling, closer, the same tone men use when things are going wrong. I tried to bolt past him, but he grabbed for me again, pure reflex. I shoved him hard into the dresser. It cracked against the wall.

Three other guards burst in through the doorway at once, weapons drawn, eyes wide.

“She’s got a weapon “ one yelled, before realizing the glass was already gone.

They swarmed me. One caught me from behind, another grabbed my arm, another shouted to hold me still. I screamed until my throat burned. I kicked, thrashed, clawed. My nails scraped across skin, my heel connected with something solid. Someone cursed.

“She’s bleeding stop, you’re hurting her…”

“Just hold her down!”

The first guard, the one I’d cut, was being pulled out of the room. Blood ran down his face in a long, dark line. He looked back once, dazed, and for a second the sight broke through the rage. My stomach twisted. I hadn’t meant

My body gave up before my mind did. Everything went heavy. My breath came fast and shallow. The guards loosened their grip a little when they felt the fight leave me. I could still taste fear and metal in my mouth.

“Get Mara,” one of them said quietly. “And the boss.”

The boss.

The word hit me like cold water.

The room fell silent, except for my ragged breathing and the faint alarm still pulsing in the distance. Then the sound of footsteps steady, deliberate approaching from the hall.

He appeared in the doorway like the light itself was afraid to touch him.

Damien Wolfe.

He didn’t have to say a word. The whole room stilled. The air changed.

His eyes moved slowly across the chaos the guards, the broken furniture, the blood, the woman kneeling on the floor with her hands shaking. They stopped on me.

He didn’t shout. Didn’t demand an explanation. His stare did all the talking.

I couldn’t move.

My palms were slick with blood his man’s and my own. The cuts burned, but I didn’t dare flinch.

For a second, I thought he might order them to take me away, to lock me up somewhere darker. But he just stood there, jaw tight, eyes locked on mine like he was trying to remember where he’d seen them before.

The silence stretched so long it hurt.

Then, softly, so soft I barely heard it, he said, “What did you do”