𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘼𝙍𝙏 𝙊𝙁 𝘿𝙔𝙄𝙉𝙂

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐀 [ 𝐥𝐢𝐞-𝐥𝐚𝐡 ]

Layla collapsed onto the bed, becoming limp and boneless as she relaxed into the mattress. Cain closed the door behind him with soft click, the silence suddenly deafening. It was if a blanket had been draped across them, shielding them from everyone else. Was this what it was like to have a friend?

For so long, Layla could not afford to lend her trust to anyone but herself. Her secrets were strapped close to her chest, where not even the most brutal of men could have stolen it from her. She cast a shrewd look towards Cain, evaluating him. Did she consider him a friend? Maybe not yet, but she wasn't particularly opposed to the idea.

"You're thinking awfully hard." Cain remarked casually, sitting on the floor so his back was against the door.

"Don't block the door." She barked, paranoia creeping up her spine and quickening her heartbeat.

She waited for the day she was able to be alone in a room with a man without the overwhelming urge to run. It was okay with Cain, he didn't seem to be in the business of harming women. However, not even Cain could completely block the impending sense of panic, not when his body was blocking the easiest escape.

He grimaced at having to move from where he was sitting, but shuffled over to the left so he was no longer blocking the door. She appreciated the way he didn't ask too many questions, was always aware of the line she had drawn in the sand. It was not so much a line as it was a

"Do you think we'll be able to follow through with this bizarre scheme?" Layla asked, leaning her head against the window.

It wasn't the best view, but if she squinted she could almost see the glimmer of the dark harbour, could see the sails of the hundreds of boats coming in and leaving daily. So many merchants scurrying around and carrying crates of produce.

"Of course we will." Cain affirmed. "If we can't do it, then who can?"

She hummed, the sound a low tone of hopeless agreement. He was right, if they couldn't do it, the task would be deemed impossible. Fortunately, nothing was impossible for the top assassins of Stovenhall.

"I guess." She shrugged.

"No one can." Cain said firmly. "We're going to get you out of your contract, I promise you."

Layla sighed. That fucking contract.

"If you don't mind me asking, how did you even get into a contract like that?" Cain inquired.

She stiffened.

"I mean, I've never seen a contract like that. Or an indenture." He continued, the last word coming out with a tone of bitterness. "I know the formal word is indenture but we all know they're basically slave contracts."

She turned towards him, examining him. Should she tell him? She had never told anyone else, ever. The only other person who knew how she fell into the trap of that death sentence was the executioner himself, Ivan. But something inside her yearned for someone to talk to, someone to spill her secrets to. The years of not talking to anyone and bottling her thoughts up were finally brimming to the top, threatening to spill over.

Cain sat patiently waiting. For someone who looked so threatening, he certainly didn't act it. Well, not with her at least.

Layla opened her mouth, an embarrassing choking sound coming out when she tried to speak.

He looked alarmed, making to get up.

She shook her head sharply, brows furrowing furiously as she glared at no one in particular. She was so angry at herself, where was her control? Where was the restraint she was so proud of herself for possessing?