Refuge in His Arms

Chapter 1 Stormy Night

MAYA.

The rain is relentless. It soaks through my jacket, drips into my boots, and chills me to the bone, but I don’t stop. I can’t. I won’t. Not tonight.

I hug my backpack tighter, the strap cutting into my shoulder, and keep moving. Every step echoes in the deserted street, every splash of puddle a reminder that someone could be following me. I’ve learned the hard way that mistakes are expensive, and my last one could have cost me everything.

The apartment wasn’t safe. Not anymore. Too close. Too easy for them to find me. I’ve tried running, hiding, changing my number, changing my routines—but it’s never enough. The shadows always catch up eventually.

I duck under the awning of a closed boutique, pressing my back against the cold glass. My hair sticks to my face, my teeth chatter, and my lungs burn, but I don’t care. The chill in the air is nothing compared to the cold gnawing in my chest. Fear. Pure, raw fear.

Footsteps echo behind me. Quick, deliberate. My heart stops for half a second. Not random passerby footsteps. Someone’s coming, and it’s not by accident. My stomach drops. I press myself further into the shadows, willing myself invisible.

I clutch the strap of my backpack with shaking hands. Inside are my few lifelines: my phone, a worn sketchbook, and a handful of cash I’ve scraped together. Everything else I left behind or was taken from me.

I can’t go back. Not to the apartment, not to the neighborhood, not to anyone who knows me. Every instinct screams: run, or be caught. And I choose run.

The street stretches ahead, twisting into darker corners, quieter sections. Fewer lights, fewer people—if I’m lucky, fewer eyes watching. I force my legs to move, ignoring the screaming of my muscles, ignoring the burn in my lungs. I have to make it farther.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails, bouncing off the wet buildings. My teeth chatter again. I duck under the awning of another shuttered shop, crouching low. My fingers are numb, my clothes soaked, but I force myself to breathe. One step at a time. One step closer to safety.

My thoughts drift to him the one I ran from. The face I can’t erase. The threats, the words that burned themselves into my memory. I had thought I could handle it. I had thought I was strong enough. But tonight proves otherwise. There is no hiding. Not from someone who wants you badly enough.

I pull my sketchbook from my backpack. My hands shake as I try to draw the alleyways, the streets I’ve navigated, safe corners where I could hide. The pencil smudges under my wet fingers, but I keep going. Drawing helps me think. Drawing helps me breathe. Drawing reminds me I’m alive.

A shadow flickers across a broken window of the abandoned building I’ve taken refuge in. I freeze, pencil hovering above the page. My pulse thunders in my ears. Is it him? Or just someone passing by? I hold my breath, counting the seconds. Nothing. Only the rain. Only the steady drip from the eaves above.

I press the sketchbook against my chest, trying to calm the shaking in my body. I’ve made it this far. I can make it farther. I have to.

Tomorrow, I tell myself, tomorrow will be different. I will find a place where no one can touch me. Where no one can find me. Where I can finally breathe.

But tonight… tonight I have to survive. And survival is all that matters.