𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘼𝙍𝙏 𝙊𝙁 𝘿𝙔𝙄𝙉𝙂

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐀 [ 𝐥𝐢𝐞-𝐥𝐚𝐡 ]

Layla was not a relationship person. She personally could never see herself loving a home enough to be exclusive with them. Of course, if the chance ever arose and she miraculously found someone who she loved like that, she would consider shackling herself to them. However, that didn't mean Layla was a celibate. She enjoyed harmless flirting and enjoyed sex as much as the average person.

When she was standing with Cain at Antoinette's stall, she realised that she had never felt so safe out in the open, never felt that dip of desire in her stomach, the swelling of affection in her heart.

And it scared her.

Scared her enough that Layla broke away from Cain, stumbling back on weak legs. Her palms were sweaty and she was struck with the sudden urge to distance herself from.

She stalked through the carnival, fighting down the feeling of guilt for abandoning Cain. Soon enough she found a lone man crouching on a wooden crate outside of an alley, smoking a stubby cigarette. He didn't seem that much older, she would place him at 28 at most. He looked up in surprise as she stopped in front of him.

"Can I help you, sweets?" His voice was gravelly with years of smoke.

"I think you can." She tilted her head and widened her eyes. 

He held her gaze for a few seconds, throwing his cigarette into the ground and stepping on it. Stood up, he wasn't much taller than she was. She thought of the way that Cains height engulfed her.

"What's a pretty girl like you doing approaching men on the street?" He asked, raising a faint eyebrow.

"Praying that the lonely man will distract her."

"The lonely man can do that and more."

He kissed her, hands at her waist and creeping down. She let him, grateful for the minimal amount of talking. He was an average kisser, she'd had better and she'd had much, much worse. His lips were quite chapped, and she noted the difference in feeling. She preferred smooth lips, but she didn't fault him, after all, she was the one to approach him. Frustration brimmed within her, the kiss wasn't doing it for her.

Layla pressed harder, ignoring the grunt of surprise from the stranger.

They broke apart.

He looked slightly dazed and breathless.

"Wanna get a room-"

He was cut off with a soft click. Layla paused as he stopped talking, his eyes growing impossibly large as he stared off to somewhere behind her shoulder.

"What?" She creased her brows in confusion.

There was blood on her. Why was there bloody on her face? On her dress, on her hands, everywhere.

Crimson rivers of blood began streaming down his face and into his eyes and mouth, and Layla reared back with disgust.

The man slid down the brick wall, leaving a trail of blood from his head. A bullet wound in his skull. He collapsed into the floor, eyes already gleaming with death. Layla didn't have to turn to see who it was. Her hand fastened around the handle of her dagger, sheathed into the holster on her right thigh.

"Oh dear, is he okay?" A voice brimming with mock-concern came from behind her.

She turned to the entrance of the alley slowly, pulling her dagger out with ease.

"Doesn't look like it to me." She said softly.

Cain stood at the entrance, the setting sun gleaming onto his back and lighting him up like an angel. An angel holding a gun. It had a silencer on it, explaining the lack of sound. He looked positively murderous, expression cold and sharp. He regarded her with narrowed eyes.