Page 3 of Veiled Vows

Suddenly, a rapid explosion of muffled pops fills the air. It sounds like popcorn exploding in the microwave a few rooms away. Smelly spins around and exchanges a look with Skinny, who lazily shrugs one shoulder. The pops get louder, but it’s difficult to decipher exactly what they are. Each one makes me flinch the louder they get and then, in a flash, the room is full of commotion.

Scarface is sprinting toward me at top speed, Smelly is yelling in a language I don’t understand, and Skinny is fighting to get the handgun out of his ankle holster. Several other men melt from the shadows, and words fly around me that I scarcelyunderstand while my pounding heart feels like it’s about to break right out of my chest.

I pick up on a few words—Yakuza, Jasmine, and something about a traitor, but everything else is a blur.

Then the door I was dragged in a few minutes earlier explodes off its hinges and sails halfway into the room. As it lands with an almighty crash, a large muscular man charges into the room and flies over one of my captors. He lands gracefully, without much noise, and shoots the guard twice in the chest with a silver handgun.

Then he’s on his feet again, sprinting right toward Skinny who’s taking terrible shots at him. The newcomer closes the gap incredibly quickly and moves like water flowing around rocks. One minute he’s sliding on the ground, shooting straight to take out Skinny’s knee, the next he’s in the air putting two bullets in his skull and landing softly as Skinny crumples to the ground, dead.

I blink and the newcomer is gone, diving behind a couch and shooting out several of the lights. In the explosion of glass and sparks, he’s gone again and this time, he reappears behind Scarface, who paused his approach of me as soon as Skinny died. He shoots him twice in the back, and Scarface’s dying screams end abruptly when the newcomer removes a knife from his hip and drives it into Scarface’s throat.

“You motherfucker!” Smelly roars, firing multiple shots toward the newcomer. The gunfight is explosive with bullets flying around me in every direction.

I should move, but fear keeps me rooted to the spot like a statue. I can barely breathe, can barely think or move. I keep my hands clutched in my shirt to keep it closed while sobs tear from my throat, and I wait for the sweet relief of a bullet hitting me and ending this nightmare.

I close my eyes, silently apologizing to my mother and father for not being strong enough, for not taking them seriously about how much danger I could end up in, for not being a better daughter.

Then, a shadow falls over me and I open my eyes expecting to see Smelly.

It’s not him.

It’s the newcomer.

He stands a full head and shoulders taller than me, with thick muscles bulging under sweaty, honey-olive skin. They strain for freedom under a black tank top that looks a size too small for his build. Thick, black hair sweeps back from his forehead, leaving a few stray strands to kiss his brows when he tilts his head down and looks me right in the eye.

His almond-shaped eyes are like warm, dark butterscotch, and the only feature I can see as the rest of his face is hidden behind a simple black balaclava.

I blink and tears leak down my cheeks.

The stranger leans alarmingly close, and as I breathe in a mix of sweat, copper, and something smoky, he winds one large arm around my body and sweeps me right off the ground. Just in time, several bullets from Smelly land where I was just standing. The stranger lifts me like I weigh nothing, and my stomach lurches at the sudden change in state. Rapid bangs from the newcomer’s guns are much louder now, so I slam my hands over my ears, but just as I’m about to close my eyes, I find a better distraction.

The newcomer’s arms are covered in black ink. At a glance, it looks just like black swirls and stripes line his arm from shoulder to wrist, but as I stare at them, more becomes clear. Each swirl isn’t just a black line

One is a dragon winding around his bicep breathing fire, another is a phoenix. One is a snake, one is a deer leaping over aline of forest trees. One swirl is actually hundreds of butterflies leading all the way up to his shoulder.

Both arms are the same, though in this insane situation, I can’t tell if they share the same tattoos. The stranger spins me around and my stomach lurches once more, and then suddenly, the shooting stops. Peering past the stranger’s thick bicep, I spot the cause.

Smelly is on the ground, choking and gurgling on blood pouring out of his mouth and a perfect, circular hole in his throat.

“Don’t look.” The stranger speaks in a low, velvety smooth voice as he raises his weapon to Smelly’s head.

Despite his instruction, I do look.

I want to see him die. I want to see the moment life leaves his disgusting body.

The stranger’s finger hovers on the trigger for a few long moments, watching Smelly drown in his own blood. When he pulls the trigger, he shoots him in the chest several times rather than the head, which makes his death a bit slower.

Exactly like he deserves.

The silence is almost as deafening as the gunfire, and I’m convinced this man must be able to hear how loudly my heart is beating; at the very least he must be able to feel it.

But who is he?

He holsters his weapon with a soft snap of leather, and then he looks at me once more with his dark brows pinched in concern. Fear returns to my thoughts as the implications of who this man could be become so overwhelming. Just because he killed the others doesn’t mean he’s going to help me.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, as if hearing my own thoughts. “I’m here to take you home.”

Home.

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