𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘼𝙍𝙏 𝙊𝙁 𝘿𝙔𝙄𝙉𝙂

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐀 [ 𝐥𝐢𝐞-𝐥𝐚𝐡 ]

Layla knew she was in deep shit. Ivan wouldn't be pleased with her letting Cain steal her client away from her. She thought of his infuriating grin and his smooth words.

"Shit." She hissed, looking down at the shattered champagne glass in her hand.

She had apparently squeezed too hard. her hand was a mess of glass shards and blood. They were embedded deep into the thick skin of her palm, rivers of blood streaming down her hand.

Layla relished the burning pain in her hand. It sent sharp stabs up her arm. It was the first time in a long time Layla had felt something other than bone-chilling numbness. She thought of the heat and the attraction she felt before, pressed up against the wall.

Layla swallowed against her dry throat.

She picked out the large pieces of glass, throwing them into a nearby trashcan. The city of Stovenhall was filled with them, they lined every street. She couldn't wait to leave the hellish city. As soon as she paid off Ivan.

Layla left the small pieces in her hand, it was too dark to pick them out. She was in the dangerous part of the city, where the streetlights broke once and were never fixed again, the city officials refused to come to this part of town to fix them. She knew that to anyone else, she looked like a vulnerable, drunken prostitute ready to be taken advantage of. She ached for a blanket or a jacket to cover herself with, but unfortunately she wasn't provided with one.

She stepped into an abandoned florist, empty of flowers. They didn't bloom in this part of the city. Fortunately, Layla wasn't here for the flowers. It was dark inside the florist, the moonlight guiding her through the small shop. She stepped over a broken hole in the wooden floor, bending down to lift over an upturned flower pot. Underneath the pot lay a brass key.

Layla stepped behind the counter, her heels clacking loudly. The trap door on the floor was quite large, and she was easily able to unlock it and slip through.

Home sweet home, she thought bitterly.

She stepped onto metal stairs, shielding her eyes from the sudden bright lights. Ivan's hideout was cold, but it was her home.

Home. As far as she was concerned, she didn't have a home. She was grateful towards Ivan, who had taken her in at such a young age and raised her. Yet she couldn't help the anger that would bubble and boil at the mere sight of him.

She walked down the stairs, ignoring the cheers of greeting from the drunken men. While she had known them her entire life, Layla kept her distance. These were not her people.

"That looks nasty." Her accent was thick, as if she was speaking with her mouth full.

Layla looked up, seeing Mama's familiar face. She didn't know what Mama's real name was, only that she was required to call her that. Layla learnt not to ask questions at an early age.

Mama was a small woman with calloused hands and a nasty temper. She held a basket of bread on her right hip, and Layla's stomach growled at the sight of it.

"I'll wrap it later." Layla said hoarsely. "Where's Ivan?"

Mama pointed a crooked finger towards his office, hobbling away to pass bread to the men.

Layla itched to get out of her dress, but she knew she would not be dismissed without a full report of the night. She shivered, stomach dropping at the fact that she had come home empty handed. She would not be going to sleep without a few marks on her back.

She knocked on Ivan's door. The familiar feeling of fear grew on her. To put it simply, Ivan was an intimidating man. He pushed 6' and was bulky with muscles. His ice-blond was shaved short to his head, exposing the thick scar that wrapped around his head. The hair did not grow over it.