Esme's POV
The wind was too still.
Esme pulled her coat tighter, walking beneath a flickering streetlight. The long route home had always been her quiet escape—past shuttered bakeries, the old library with ivy-wrapped brick, and a garden that hadn't bloomed in years. But tonight, every shadow felt too loud. Every echo of her own footsteps came with a question mark.
She hadn't looked back.
Not yet.
That would be giving in.
Instead, she stared ahead, face composed, spine straight. But her hands were clenched deep in her coat pockets, nails digging crescents into her palms.
They're just echoes. Rats. A stray.
But her body knew better. That tight coil in her gut, the raised hairs at the back of her neck—they weren't strangers. They were warnings.
Her mother used to say: "Instinct is the flower that blooms when no one's looking. Don't pluck it."
A branch cracked behind her.
Not far.
Her stride quickened, but so did the echoes. Not just one set of footsteps. Two. Maybe three.
She turned down an alley that cut behind a butcher's shop, hoping to lose them, or at least draw them out. Her boots struck against cobblestone, louder now. Louder still when she passed under a yellowed bulb near a side door. Her shadow stretched across the wall.
Then—
A hand closed around her upper arm and yanked.
She spun, kicked out, caught someone's shin—heard a grunt. Another figure lunged from the side, forcing her back against the brick.
Esme hissed. "Get your hands off me—"
The one in front of her—tall, masked in a hoodie—grabbed her wrists, slammed them above her head.
"Not so tough now, are you, flower girl?"
His voice was like spoiled honey.
She struggled, twisting her knee up to strike, but another man gripped her thigh and shoved her down. Her shoulder scraped the brick. Pain flared. Her scarf was ripped away in the scuffle.
A third figure loomed behind the others, silent. Watching.
She was outnumbered. Three to one.
Her breath quickened. Panic edged her vision.
Her brain began calculating—if she twisted this way, broke a nose—if she screamed loud enough, if she reached the blade in her boot—
But the grip tightened.
"You talk big," the first one snarled. "Let's see if you're as cold as they say."
One hand moved toward her coat buttons.
One button came undone.
Two buttons came undone.
Three—
That's when a voice cut through the dark.
Steady. Commanding.
"Let her go. Right now."
Silence slammed down like a hammer.
Esme blinked against the light from a flashlight beam and the unmistakable shape of a raised badge—gleaming under the soft click of a pistol being unholstered.
The men froze.
The speaker stepped forward from the edge of the alley. His face was in shadow, but she knew that voice.
Liam.
He was out of breath, eyes blazing, jaw locked. He didn't shout. He didn't need to.
"I'm a cop," he said evenly, gun leveled. "You're going to back up. One at a time. Or you'll be leaving in cuffs—if you're lucky."
The one pinning Esme hesitated. But something in Liam's tone—cold steel wrapped in calm—made even the boldest of them falter. Slowly, one released her. Another backed off, hands raised halfway.
The third didn't move.
Liam cocked the gun.
That did it.
They scattered—running without another word, their footsteps fading into the night.
Esme collapsed against the brick wall, her chest heaving. Her knees had gone soft. She didn't know if she was shaking from rage or relief.
Liam holstered his weapon and stepped closer, careful, like he was approaching a wounded animal.
"You okay?" His voice was low, soft now.
She looked up, eyes wide, lips parted—but no words came.
He knelt beside her, eyes scanning her quickly. "Did they hurt you?"
She shook her head, voice raw. "They didn't… but they were going to."
A pause. His expression shifted. A quiet fury settled into the corners of his mouth.
Esme swallowed, finally tearing her eyes away. Her scarf lay in a dirty puddle, torn.
"I didn't see them coming," she whispered.
"You weren't supposed to. They were waiting." He looked over his shoulder into the alley. "I've seen them outside your shop. Twice now."
Her eyes snapped back to him. "You knew they were watching me?"
"I didn't know what they were planning. Not until tonight." He hesitated. "I followed you because… I had a feeling."
She let that hang in the air.
He didn't say more.
Esme's heart pounded painfully. Her palms were still raw from where her skin scraped the bricks.
It felt like a violation—not just of her body, but of her control. Her silence. Her safety. They'd gotten close. Too close.
And Liam had been the one to pull her back from the edge.
She looked up again, studying him through the strands of hair fallen in her face. "You shouldn't have followed me."
"I know." His jaw tightened. "But I'm glad I did."
Silence pressed between them.
Then she tried to stand. Her legs buckled.
Liam caught her before she hit the ground.
"Okay," he said gently, steadying her by the waist. "Let me take you home."
Esme didn't protest.
She nodded, voice like paper. "Sure."
He didn't let go until she was steady on her feet. Then, still watching the dark ends of the alley, he led her back to the street, his hand hovering near his sidearm, just in case.
Esme didn't speak again as they walked to his car.
But the silence between them wasn't empty.
It was full of everything unspoken—Why are they after me? Who sent them? What do you really know, Liam?
And under that: the weight of his hand catching her. The echo of his voice breaking the dark.
She didn't know if she felt safe. But she felt seen.
And that scared her even more.