Let's Get Wed or You're Dead

CH 8: Target Locked!

CHAPTER 8

Alesandrie flagged down a taxi at the edge of the street.

His car was still where he had left it earlier, abandoned near the crime scene close to the hospital. He had ridden in the ambulance without thinking twice. Only now, standing on the curb with the city humming around him, did the weight of the morning finally settle into his bones.

When the taxi pulled over, he checked his wristwatch.

He would be late despite going there directly now.

Across the street, a coffee shop sat in plain view. That was where he was headed to earlier before everything happened. And the sight of it tugged at him harder than he expected.

He hesitated.

If he went straight to his car, he could still make the seminar with minimal damage. If he stopped for coffee, even just a few minutes, he would be late enough to feel it. He rubbed a hand briefly over his face, thumb brushing the edge of lingering fatigue.

After what had happened, his throat felt dry. His chest still carried the tight echo of adrenaline.

He exhaled, a decision made.

The taxi pulled away as he stepped onto the sidewalk and headed toward the coffee shop.

From a distance, Samantha watched.

Her car remained parked far enough to blend into the line of vehicles along the road. She leaned back slightly as she observed him standing oddly still on the street, glancing down at his watch, then lifting his gaze toward the café ahead of him. There was something almost out of place about the pause, as if he were weighing the world rather than a simple choice.

"Dran," she said quietly. "Follow him."

Dran shifted and slipped out of the car, merging seamlessly into the pedestrian flow.

When Alesandrie finally started walking toward the coffee shop, Samantha's eyes narrowed just a fraction.

"George," she added, without looking at him. "Get me a bouquet from that flower stand." She tilted her head in its direction outside.

George nodded and stepped out.

Samantha reached into her purse and drew out a compact mirror. She checked her reflection with a practiced glance, posture relaxed but precise. A quick retouch of powder. A subtle correction at the corner of her lips and applied a little gloss.

She wasn't dressed to be noticed, and yet she always was.

Black leather jacket. Dark inner top. Skinny jeans. Boots worn enough to look lived-in. Everything black, sharp lines softened only by the natural confidence of how she carried herself. Her hair fell in perfect waves down her back and seemed untouched by the chaos of the day. Her face alone was enough to draw attention, admiration from some, and resentment from others.

She snapped the mirror shut just as George returned, bouquet in hand. Full-bloom red roses and some orange ones with burgundy hydrangea. A little grand but just right for someone like her.

Perfect.

Samantha stepped out of the car and took the bouquet from him, her fingers brushing the stems as she adjusted her grip. She glanced once more toward the coffee shop entrance, where Alesandrie disappeared inside.

Her lips curved, not into a smile, but into something quieter. Timing, after all, was everything.

She approached Dran near the entrance of the shop and stopped just close enough to speak without drawing attention. She gave some instruction to him and George.

Dran gave a subtle nod, already fading back into the rhythm of the street. George moved into position. And they waited.

Only a few minutes passed before the door opened again. Alesandrie stepped out with a paper cup in hand, steam curling faintly into the air. He took a small sip as he walked, shoulders finally easing. His pace was unhurried as he headed toward the row of parked cars lining the side of the road. He reached into his pocket and pressed his car key. Somewhere ahead, a car chirped in response.

That was her cue then.

Samantha moved.

She walked past him briskly, as if intent on beating him in the same direction, a phone pressed to her ear, her head slightly bowed in the posture of someone half-absorbed in conversation.

"Yes, I know," she said into the phone, her voice tight, distracted. "I said I'll handle it."

She took three more steps.

Then the street exploded into motion.

A man sprinted out of nowhere, shouldering past her with force. His hand lashed out, fingers closing around her phone as he tore it from her grasp. In the same motion, something sharp kissed the back of her hand.

Pain flared. A thin line of red opened instantly.

Samantha gasped and staggered back. She let her knees give way and fell to the pavement. The impact was real enough to sting and her palm scraped against the ground. The pain grounded her performance and made it effortless. She cried out again, clutching her injured hand to her chest as if shielding it, breath hitching, eyes wide.

"Hey!" Someone shouted nearby.

The snatcher was already running, disappearing down the street in a blur of motion.

Samantha stayed on the ground, trembling just enough to sell it. Her shoulders drawn inward, her expression shaken and raw. She lifted her head and stared in the direction the man had fled, eyes glassy, stunned, and hurt.

Helpless.

Alesandrie saw everything.

He ran to her side as she fell, coffee forgotten, cup hitting the pavement somewhere behind him. He crouched beside her at once, careful but urgent, one hand hovering before deciding where to help.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, voice tight. "Can you stand?"

He helped her sit up, steadying her by the arm. She was still clutching a bouquet of flowers in one hand, absurdly intact against the chaos, while the other hand trembled near her chest. His eyes dropped immediately to the back of it.

Blood.

Not a lot, but enough to still matter. He held her arm to help her stand. He pulled her carefully with him.

"Let me see," he said, already reaching for her wrist. His fingers were warm and sure, professional as he turned her hand gently, inspecting the cut. "Did he use a blade? Does it sting? Any numbness?"

She didn't answer immediately.

That voice. Gentle and masculine at the same time. Where did she hear it?

She looked up at him. "Alesandrie Reiyu," she said softly, then smiled.

The sound of his name, spoken so clearly, froze him. He looked at her properly. Up close. They were actually standing a little too close inside their personal space.

He was still holding her hand when his brows knit together, confusion flickering across his face. "I'm sorry… do I know you?" he asked, blinking once. Then again and again. Somewhere behind his mind, a thought emerged that if he knew her, he would've recognized her in an instant. So, that was a stupid question to ask. But then again, there was that odd feeling of familiarity.

Her smile didn't waver.

Earlier, on the street, amid screaming and blood and movement, he had noticed her. A woman standing still while chaos broke around her. Striking enough that the thought had flashed through his mind uninvited. Too beautiful for the moment. Too out of place.

He had dismissed it instantly. There hadn't been time for anything else.

Now, she was right in front of him.

Her features were impossible to ignore. The sharp confidence in her eyes. The calm beneath the act of distress. Even with what happened just now, she carried herself with a composure that unsettled him. The smile she gave him wasn't weak or shaken. It almost seemed like adoration.

And suddenly he was aware of everything. The way his hand still enclosed hers. The way his pulse had jumped. The way his thoughts lagged half a beat behind his senses. He realized then that he hadn't imagined it earlier. She really was that beautiful. And she was that same woman who he almost bumped into. The same outfit and her long, dark brown hair, his eyes only caught when he looked up.

"How do you know my name?" Alesandrie asked, the question tumbling out before he could stop it.

At the same time, habit took over. His free hand went into his pocket and came back out with a folded handkerchief. He pressed it carefully to the back of her hand, eyes narrowing as he assessed the wound. It wasn't superficial. The cut was clean, a little too clean, and deeper than it first looked.

"This needs pressure," he said automatically. "And it might need—"

He stopped. She hadn't answered him.

Instead, she lifted her other hand. The bouquet brushed lightly against his sleeve as she caught his wrist, gentle enough to look like gratitude to anyone passing by. Then he felt it. Cold and sharp.

A blade, resting against the inside of his wrist.

"Let's get inside your car," her soft voice sounded too out of the ordinary. And the smile never left her face. If not for the sharp point that he could feel grazing his skin, there would be nothing wrong in their interaction.

Something in his chest tightened. His throat went dry as he swallowed, the world tilting just a fraction off balance. Fear crept in slowly to his spine.

He glanced around instinctively.

People were walking past. Cars rolled by. Sure enough, some people were looking, but not for another incident that he was not currently involved in. That he was now the victim. To anyone watching, it was just a concerned man helping an injured woman, or rather a couple who were standing too close publicly. Nothing more.

"Don't even think about it, doctor," she added quietly, her voice warm, almost amused.

That smile made it worse.

His car was right there. Close enough that he hadn't even noticed how perfectly positioned it was until now.

"Open the backseat," she ordered.

Her grip tightened just enough for the message to sink in. The knife didn't press harder. It didn't need to.

With unsteady hands, Alesandrie reached for the handle and unlocked the car. He opened the back door as instructed. She released his wrist only long enough to slide inside, her movements smooth despite the injury.

Then she caught him again. She pulled him in after her. And the door shut.

Outside, it was another man who closed it behind him, sealing them in. Alesandrie caught a brief glimpse of him before the window framed nothing but the street. Another figure appeared beside the car. Both men took position without speaking and stood on alert from anything.

People continue in their daily lives, without knowledge that they had witnessed in broad daylight another type of chaos. Only privately. Inside closed doors.