A former war nurse struggles to find hope in herself and humanity. Running from her past, she meets someone who can change her whole perspective. What happens when the person who she thought she could trust the most turns out to be the one she shoul...
The gym's natural evening light had shined on her, I leaned forward in my chair, watching Dahlia run. She moved with grace, her sweat-slicked skin glistening. The treadmill hummed, drowning out the thoughts that churned in my mind.
Dahlia's Aunt, Diane, was a force to be reckoned with. Her fiery spirit matched her flaming red hair, and she had a hawk's eye for details. She'd taken an immediate dislike to the way I flirted, the way I lingered near Dahlia. It was harmless, really. Just playful banter. But Diane saw through it all.
"Leo," she'd warned me once, her eyes sharp. "I know your type. Don't play games with my niece. She's got enough on her plate."
And she was right. Dahlia had left the mafia, traded blood for bandages, and became a nurse. Her compassion ran deep, her heart scarred by war. She was no ordinary woman—Her lineage pulsed with ancient power, even if she didn't realize it—she was strong.
But I had a job to do, a duty that transcended flirtations and stolen glances. The Vinci family—the same one Dahlia had fled—needed my loyalty. The streets whispered secrets, and my role was to listen, to protect. I couldn't afford distractions, especially not the kind that looked like Dahlia.
So, I kept my distance. I watched her from shadows, my heart aching. She deserved more than a flirtatious solider with a hidden agenda. She deserved someone who'd hold her when the nightmares came, who'd trace the scars on her soul and promise healing. But Diane's hawk eyes followed me, her disapproval a constant weight. She'd seen too much—my lingering glances, my half-smiles. She knew I was torn between duty and desire. And she wasn't about to let me forget it.
So, I watched Dahlia, her determination etched in every step on that treadmill. She was more than a nurse, more than a victim of war, and so much more than just a pawn of The Serpents. She was a woman caught between worlds, and I was just a man trying to find his place in hers. And as the light beamed down on her, exposing the glow of her beautiful ginger hair, I vowed to keep my distance. Duty called, but desire lingered—a silent ache that echoed through the shadows.
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Dahlia's silhouette loomed over me, her presence slicing through the fog of my contemplations.
"Ready to go?" she asked, her voice a mere whisper. I nodded, my gaze meeting hers. "Yeah," I replied, my tone gruff.
My steps were heavy, each footfall echoing in the quiet. Dahlia's presence beside me was both a comfort and a reminder of vulnerability. She knew my silence, my stoicism, and yet, she remained. The car sat there, waiting—a sleek black SUV that held our secrets within its tinted windows. As I opened the door for her, our eyes met. Hers held questions, but I had no answers. Not yet.
We slid into the leather seats, the engine purring to life. The city lights blurred outside, and I gripped the steering wheel. Dahlia leaned back, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. The silence stretched, taut like a wire. And then, as we pulled away from the curb, the engine's hum filling the void. The car hummed along the darkened streets, the silence between Dahlia and I thick as the night. I kept my eyes on the road, my knuckles white against the steering wheel.
