Captured by Darkness, Claimed by Desire

Sophia’s POV Chapter 1: The Stranger in the Alley Sophia’s POV The hospital doors slid shut behind me, locking the chaos inside. For a moment, I just stood there, my body too heavy, my mind still wired from the fourteen-hour shift I’d barely crawled out of. There were too many patients and not enough hands. My scrubs smelled like sweat, antiseptic, and blood—someone else’s, not mine. Someone I couldn’t save. I exhaled slowly, tightening my jacket around me as I stepped onto the sidewalk. The city smelled like gasoline and rotting garbage. A place that ate people alive. I walked fast, head down, ignoring the exhaustion clawing at my limbs. I had learned a long time ago—don’t linger, don’t make eye contact. I passed a boarded-up liquor store, its neon “OPEN 24 HOURS” sign still buzzing despite the shattered glass below it. Then, I smelled it. Blood. Not the kind that lingers on my skin after a shift. Fresh. Sharp. I stopped. My breath stalled in my throat. I had smelled a lot of blood in my life. I could tell the difference between a shallow cut and a gut wound. This? This was bad. A memory surfaced, my mother, thin and shaking from withdrawal, still dragging a half-dead man into our apartment. “We help people, Sophia. No one else will.” I squeezed my eyes shut. Walk away. You don’t need to save everyone. But my feet were already moving. I turned the corner, following the scent. At first, I thought it was a pile of trash. A shadow slumped between the dumpster and the brick wall. Then the neon light flickered, casting just enough glow for me to see the blood. A lot of blood. My pulse picked up. Too much. He was big with long limbs, broad shoulders, the kind of build that took up space even as he lay there, half-dead. His black button-down was soaked through with blood, the fabric clinging to his torso. Gunshot wounds. At least two. Maybe three. I glanced up and down the alley. No one else. Nobody was coming for him. I should have left. Should have called 911 and walked away. Instead, I stepped closer. My heart pounded as I crouched beside him. Up close, he looked worse. Pale. Too still. His lips were slightly parted, his chest rising and falling in uneven intervals. But he wasn’t gone yet. I hesitated, letting my fingers hover above his throat, ready to check for a pulse. The second my hand brushed his skin, I felt it. The rough ridges of ink beneath my palm. Even in the dim light, I could see the tattoos snaking down his forearm—bold slashes of Russian, symbols I didn’t recognize. And a wolf, a snarling beast inked deep into his skin. A dagger, dripping with something dark. My stomach twisted. Not a random victim. That’s when he moved. His hand snapped up, clamping around my wrist. Cold. Strong. Unshakable. I gasped, jerking back, but his grip tightened. His lips parted, a slow, rasping breath slipping between them. Weak, but not broken. "Run." My stomach dropped. His eyes cracked open—black as a starless night. Not glassy. Not fading. Just assessing and calculating me I swallowed hard, forcing my voice steady. “You’re losing too much blood.” His fingers twitched around my wrist. His lips curled slightly, something almost amused behind his exhaustion. His voice came out in a slow, and controlled whisper. "Run… they're coming." A cold chill slithered down my spine. This was weird this strange the man didn't ask for help or ask who i was? Just run. Ignoring him, I grabbed his arm. “Come on.” I huffed under the weight, he was too heavy with too much muscle . He wasn’t making this easy. His body sagged against the wall, unresponsive. I shoved my shoulder under his, bracing my feet. “Move,” I muttered. “I can’t do this if you’re deadweight. You have to help me here.” For a second, nothing. Then, a slow shift. His weight leaned into me just enough to let me pull him upright. His lips brushed my temple as his breath came out rough, close enough that I could feel the heat of it against my skin. "I warned you." I ignored him. Then boots crunched at the alley’s mouth. A voice, low and sharp: “Check over there.” I shoved forward, dragging him with me. He moved, but his steps were sluggish, his body too heavy, too unsteady. A flashlight beam swept the alley behind us. Two men emerged from the shadows. One of them muttered, “No way he’s still breathing after that.” The other scoffed. “Let’s make sure.” No time. No time. Panic clawed at my ribs, but I forced it down, forced my legs to keep moving, forced him to move with me. The flashlight beam sliced through the darkness again. I pressed myself deeper into the shadowy crevice behind the dumpster, my breath shallow and silent. The wounded man slumped against me, his weight heavy and unsteady. I clamped a hand over his mouth, my fingers trembling, and leaned in close to his ear. "Don’t make a sound." His skin was clammy, his pulse erratic under my palm. He gave the faintest nod. The beam swept closer. Boots crunched against gravel. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure they’d hear it. The man beside me shifted slightly, his boot scraping against the pavement. The sound was soft, but in the silence, it might as well have been a gunshot. The footsteps stopped. "You hear that?" one of the men muttered. "Yeah." The beam swung toward us. I squeezed my eyes shut, as if that could make us invisible. Then—a loud crash echoed from the far end of the alley. The beam jerked away. The men cursed. "What the f**k was that?" one of them barked. "Probably a damn cat," the other growled. Then their footsteps receded. I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Not until they were gone. Finally, I exhaled. My body sagged with relief. The wounded man slumped against me. I shook him gently, my voice hoarse. “You’re going to owe me for this.” His lips barely moved. "I always pay my debts, kiska." By the time I reached my apartment, my arms shook with exhaustion. I shoved the key into the lock, kicked the door open, and dragged him inside. The second we crossed into my apartment, his legs gave out completely. I caught him barely, before crashed to the floor. He exhaled sharply, his lips parting slightly as he forced air into his lungs. "Son of a b***h," I cursed. His eyes cracked open—dark amusement flickering beneath exhaustion. "Is that how you talk to the man you just saved?" I snorted. “You think you’re saved? You’re still bleeding all over my floor.” His smirk was faint. A flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. "You should have run." I let out a sharp breath. "Yeah? And you should have died." His chest shook with something close to a laugh. But his eyes slid closed before he could say anything else. I pressed my fingers against his neck. His pulse was weak, but steady. For now. I exhaled hard. What the hell had I just done?