𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘼𝙍𝙏 𝙊𝙁 𝘿𝙔𝙄𝙉𝙂

𝐂𝐀𝐈𝐍 [ 𝐤𝐞𝐲𝐧 ]

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘊𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘓𝘖𝘙𝘋, 𝘔𝘺 𝘱𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 [𝘪𝘴] 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘳.

Cain wanted her; he would do whatever it took to get his hands on her.

His hands trembled as he stroked the metallic chamber of his gun. He knew how to handle guns, knew how to disassemble them and reassemble them faster than you could blink. He wanted to handle her, place his hands around her neck and squeeze until she clawed at him, blue in the face and begging for air.

Wanted to tie her up and keep her forever. He would never hurt her, no. He just wanted to be her one and only love. And if he had his way, she would be.

Cain rolled up his sleeves, allowing the cool air of the party to kiss his skin. The winter nights were unforgiving, and he regretted not bringing a coat. But it brought a sense of clarity to him, a sort of level-headedness. His next client was three minutes late, three minutes that he mourned. He hated these ridiculous galas, where everyone paraded in their finest clothing to impress strangers that would forget them the next day. Half of them were high out of their minds on various substances with names so long he would turn blue in the face if he attempted to read them all out.

He tilted his head, the back of his head lightly bumping the smooth marble column. Waiting for Hugo's victims to arrive was the hardest part of his job.

But the smooth music and the clinking of flute glasses faded as she appeared, like an angel emerging from the clouds. He tilted his head as he gazed at her.

She was always there. Wherever he went, she went. She was his shadow, and no amount of darkness would rid her. Sometimes he would catch a flicker of movement in the corner of his, whether he was walking down the street, getting into bed or bathing himself. Of course, she was never there when he turned. The tinkle of a laugh carried by the wind, dissipating into thin air before he could truly listen. He would drive himself mad one day, he'd be arrested with his arms strapped to his chest with a straight jacket while he whipped his head screaming her name. And what a name she had.

Layla Abadhi.

He met many people in his life, and had forgotten most of them. But he remembered her name. Would never forget her name. It rolled off his tongue with a particular smoothness he could never quite replicate with anyone else, it was the sound of rippling water, the sound of dripping honey. He remembered the first time he head learnt of her name he had repeated it out loud countlessly, until the words had blended together and become unintelligible. It was everywhere, her name was branded into his brain and had left a scar so deep he would never be able to erase it. It sat there on the tip of his tongue at all times, taunting him to open his mouth so it could roll off and be spoken aloud.

He knew many things about her. Kept the information strapped close to his chest where no one would be able to rip it away from him.

While he worked for Hugo, she worked for Ivan. Two of the biggest mob bosses in the hellish city of Stovenhall. If that didn't tell him about their fate, he didn't know what would. They were star-crossed in every way, yet he could not help but be drawn to her like a moth to a lamp.

She looked down her curved nose, assessing the party with bored eyes. Her smooth, brown skin glittered under the golden chandeliers. He wondered what it would be like to hold her face in his hands, wondered how soft her skin was. She was beautiful in an untouchable way. For such a small woman, she had an intimidating presence. His eyes trailed down the the sharp angles of her shoulders, down the elegant curve of her body, down the soft curve of her hip. He wanted to trace the line of her body with the palm of his hand.