Claimed By The Ruthless Biker

The car died two miles after the last streetlight.

One second, the engine was dragging me through the dark mountain road with a tired growl. The next, the steering wheel stiffened under my hands, the headlights flickered and the whole car rolled to a miserable stop by the side of the road.

"No. No, no, no." My voice cracked as I slammed both palms against the wheel. "Please. Please, not here."

The dashboard glowed once. Then went black. The silence that followed was worse than the noise.

Outside, the mountain pressed close on both sides of the road, all tall pines and black shadows. Fog crawled low over the cracked asphalt. Somewhere far off, something metal creaked in the wind. A sign leaned crookedly near the ditch, its white paint peeling around the words:

WELCOME TO GREYSTONE

POPULATION: 1,904

Under it, someone had spray-painted in red:

LEAVE WHILE YOU CAN.

I stared at it for three full seconds.

Then I laughed. It came out wrong. Thin. Shaky. Almost a sob.

"Funny," I whispered. "Really funny."

My phone buzzed on the passenger seat. I jumped so hard my shoulder hit the window. The screen lit up with a name I had deleted seven hours ago and still somehow knew by heart.

DAMIAN.

My stomach dropped.

I didn't touch it.

The phone stopped ringing. Then immediately started again.

DAMIAN.

I snatched it up, thumb hovering over the power button. The cracked screen reflected my face back at me in pale, broken pieces. Wild brown hair. Tired eyes. A split in my lower lip I had covered with cheap drugstore gloss at the last gas station.

My engagement ring was no longer on my finger. The mark it left behind still was.

The phone buzzed again.

This time, a message dropped.

Pick up, Ava. You're making this worse.

My breath caught even as a second message followed.

You can't run from me.

With trembling hands, I turned the phone off.

The darkness swallowed the screen, and for one stupid second I felt like I had won. Then the wind hit the side of the car and rocked it gently.

I grabbed my bag. It was small. Too small for a life. One pair of jeans, two shirts, a toothbrush, cash I had taken from the emergency envelope hidden behind Damian's framed law degree and the old photograph of Eli I could not leave behind.

My brother smiled up at me from inside the bag when I opened it to check if the money was still there.

Army uniform. Crooked grin. One arm thrown around my shoulders like he could keep the whole world away from me.

"You said I was brave," I whispered to the picture. "You were a liar."

I zipped the bag and stepped out of the car.

The cold slapped me first. Then the quiet.

There were no other cars. No houses. No gas station light. Just the road twisting downward, the trees and the faint glow of something far ahead. Orange. Flickering. Maybe a building. Maybe a warning.

I locked the car even though there was nothing in it worth stealing and started walking.

My boots crunched over gravel. The strap of my bag dug into my shoulder. Every few steps, I looked behind me.

Empty road.

Keep moving, I told myself.

So I walked faster.

My heartbeat was louder than my footsteps. It had been like that for months.

Damian used to say I was too sensitive.

Maybe, I was.

The orange glow grew brighter as the road dipped into town.

Greystone appeared like something forgotten by time.

Old brick buildings. Dark shop windows. A pharmacy with one flickering sign. A closed diner with red stools visible through the glass. A church bell tower rising behind rooftops like a watchful finger. The streets were empty, but curtains moved when I passed.

People were awake.

People were watching.

I lowered my head and kept walking.

A neon sign buzzed at the far end of the street.

THE PIT.

The letters were red, but the T had burned out, so it read:

HE PI

Beneath the sign, a row of motorcycles lined the curb like sleeping animals. Black, chrome, heavy. Some had helmets hanging from the handles. One had a black wolf painted on the fuel tank, its body wrapped around a burning wheel.

The same symbol was carved into the wooden door.

A biker bar.

Perfect. Really perfect.

I almost turned around in fear. Then a cold gust of wind pushed through my sweater, and I remembered my dead car, my dead phone, Damian's messages and the two miles of empty road behind me.

Oh God, I needed a phone.

I needed help.

I needed not to freeze outside like a complete idiot.

"Just ask for a mechanic," I muttered. "Walk in. Ask. Leave."

My hand shook as I pushed the door open.

Heat hit me first. Then smoke. Then silence.

Not normal silence though. It was not the kind that happens because people are bored or tired.

This was a killing kind of silence.

A dozen men turned to look at me. Maybe more.

They sat at the bar, around scratched wooden tables, near the pool table at the back where the green felt had cigarette burns at the corners. Most of them were large. Some were bearded. Many were tattooed. Several wore black leather cuts with the same wolf-and-burning-wheel symbol stitched across the back.

A jukebox in the corner played low, something old and rough with too much guitar.

Nobody spoke.

A glass paused halfway to a man's mouth.

A pool cue stopped in midair.

The bartender, a woman with black hair and red lipstick, looked me over once and muttered, "Oh, sweetheart."

That was when I knew I was in the wrong place.

Very wrong place.

Oh God.

"I'm sorry," I said quickly, backing toward the door. "I just need a phone. My car broke down. I didn't mean to-"

My back hit something solid. It was not the door. It was a man.

He smelled like whiskey and sweat. His hand landed on the door above my head, blocking it shut.

"Well, look at that," he drawled. "Town finally sent us a welcome gift."

My throat went dry.

I turned slowly.

He was tall, broad, with a reddish beard and unfocused eyes. His leather vest hung open over a stained shirt. A toothpick moved between his lips as his gaze dropped to my bag, then my face, then lower.

I gripped the strap tighter.

"I'm leaving."

He smiled. "Already? But you just got here."

"I said I'm leaving."

"And I said..." He leaned closer. "What's a pretty little thing like you doing alone in Greystone close to midnight?"

My pulse slammed into my ears.

Behind him, someone chuckled.

Another voice said, "Careful, Rafe."

The man in front of me ignored it.

"What's your name?"

I swallowed. "Move."

His smile widened. "That ain't a name."

The door handle was behind him. If I shoved him, he would grab me. If I screamed, I didn't know who would help. If I froze, I would hate myself for it later.

I was so fucking tired of freezing.

"Move," I said again, louder this time.

The room shifted just then and it seemed something changed.

The air had even tightened.

Oh God, what was happening, I thought as fear raced up my spine.

The man blocking me felt it too because his smile twitched.

"Rafe," a voice came just then, booming through the room.

It was one word. And it was with a voice that was low, calm and almost bored.

The man in front of me went still.

Startled, I looked past his shoulder just as a man stepped out from behind the bar.

CHAPTER TWO

Ava's POV

No, he did not step out, I thought as I looked at the stranger with an open mouth.

He appeared.

It was as if the shadows had been holding him and finally decided to let him go.

He was huge. Taller than every man in the room. Broad in a way that made the narrow space behind the bar look too small for him. His black shirt stretched across his chest and arms covered in tattoos that disappeared beneath the sleeves and climbed up the side of his neck. I saw sharp lines, numbers, shapes, symbols I could not understand.

A scar cut through his left eyebrow and down toward his cheek.

But it was his eyes that stopped me.

They were grey. Cold. And fixed on the man blocking the door.

The whole bar seemed to hold its breath around him.

The bartender stopped wiping a glass. The pool cue lowered. The drunk man's hand dropped from the door.

"Cain," Rafe said, trying for a laugh and missing. "I was just being friendly."

Cain said nothing. He only looked at him and Rafe took one step away from me. Then another.

I could breathe again but not well. Not fully. Because now Cain's eyes moved from Rafe to me.

And somehow, that was worse.

He did not look at me like the others had.

He did not look curious.

He did not look amused.

He looked like he had been expecting me.

My goodness, I thought. Why was he looking at me like that?

My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag even as Cain came closer.

The men made room for him without being asked.

He stopped a few feet away, close enough for me to see the faint bruising along his knuckles and the black ink curling around his wrists. One tattoo near his thumb looked almost like a set of numbers. Coordinates, maybe. Or dates.

His voice, when it came, was rough.

"You lost?"

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

The bartender gave me a sympathetic look. "Honey, answer him."

I forced air into my lungs. "My car broke down."

"Where?"

"Outside town."

"How far?"

"I don't know. Two miles, maybe."

His eyes moved over me quickly. Not like Rafe's had. Cain's gaze was sharp, assessing. My thin sweater. My shaking hands. My small bag. My face. Everything.

He saw too much and I hated that.

"Phone?" he asked.

"Dead."

"Car?"

"Also dead."

A faint sound came from the back of the room. Someone was laughing under his breath.

Cain did not turn around. "You find something funny, Knox?"

The laughter stopped immediately.

I should have been relieved.

Instead, my fear grew teeth.

Who was this man that could silence a room without raising his voice?

Cain looked at my bag again. "You got somewhere to stay?"

"Yes," I lied.

The bartender snorted softly.

Cain's eyes didn't move from my face. "Where?"

I lifted my chin. "That's not your business."

Someone at the bar muttered, "Damn."

Rafe, now standing several feet away, let out a low whistle. "She's got a mouth."

Cain's head turned slightly. Just slightly. And Rafe shut up.

My heart stumbled just then.

Cain looked back at me. "Everything that walks into my bar bleeding fear becomes my business."

"I'm not bleeding."

"Didn't say you were."

Heat climbed my neck. "I just need to use a phone."

The bartender reached beneath the counter and lifted a landline receiver. An actual landline. Beige. Ancient. Like something from a museum.

"Local call or long distance?" she asked.

I stared at it.

Who was I supposed to call?

Not Damian. Definitely not him.

Not anyone from home. Damian knew everyone from home.

Not the police. What would I even say? That my fiance scares me and that was why I was running away. He hasn't even technically broken the law in a way I can prove because he is smart enough to hurt me where nobody can see?

My silence lasted too long and Cain noticed.

"No call then," he said briskly.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

I hated him a little in that moment. Not because he was wrong but because he was right too fast.

Rafe relaxed against the wall, watching me again. "Maybe she needs a ride, Cain. I can take her wherever she wants."

"No," I said immediately.

The room went quieter in response. Rafe's grin returned even as Cain's eyes narrowed.

I stepped back and hit the door again. "I mean, no, thank you. I'll figure it out."

"In the dark?" Cain asked.

"Yes."

"With a dead car?"

"Yes."

"In a town you don't know?"

I clenched my teeth. "I said I'll figure it out."

Cain took one step closer. Immediately, I took one step back even though there was nowhere to go.

His jaw tightened and his voice lowered as he spoke, "I'm not him."

The words struck something in me so hard I almost dropped my bag.

I'm not him.

My lips parted. "What?"

But Cain did not repeat himself.

The bartender's eyes flicked between us while Rafe's smile faded.

I suddenly became aware of the room again. The men. The leather. The smoke. The wolf symbols. The exit blocked by my own fear and Cain's body.

I straightened as I spoke, "You don't know anything about me."

"No," Cain said. "But I know what running looks like."

I laughed once but it sounded broken. "Congratulations."

His face did not change and somehow, that made me angrier.

I could deal with cruelty. I understood cruelty. Cruelty gave me something to push against.

But this calm, steady watching? This man looking at me as if he could hear every crack inside my chest?

No. Absolutely not. I couldn't take it.

"I shouldn't have come in here," I said.

Cain's gaze flicked briefly toward the window. "Probably not."

"Great. Then we agree."

"But you did."

I reached for the door handle.

Rafe moved again, just one careless step in my direction and Cain's hand shot out. He didn't touch Rafe. He didn't need to. His palm pressed flat against Rafe's chest, stopping him like a wall.

"Sit down," Cain said to him.

Rafe's face reddened. "I wasn't doing nothing."

Cain finally looked at him fully.

"I said sit down."

Rafe held his stare for one second. Then two.

Then he backed away and dropped into a chair.

I stared at them even as Cain turned back to me. "You walk out that door, you won't make it twenty minutes before someone follows."

The room did not deny it. My stomach turned cold immediately.

"You're trying to scare me," I said, hoping I wouldn't start shaking.

"No." His eyes were steady. "I'm telling you the truth."

I glared at him. "I don't need your protection."

"Didn't ask what you needed."

My fingers curled around the handle. "You don't get to decide for me."

For the first time, something moved across his face. It was not anger. Pain, maybe. But it was gone too quickly to be sure.

"No," he said quietly. "I don't."

Then he stepped back.

The path to the door opened.

I should have left.

I wanted to leave.

But beyond the dirty front window, Greystone waited dark and empty. My car was dead. My phone was dead. Damian was somewhere behind me, pulling on every invisible string he had wrapped around my life.

And inside this bar, every dangerous man was now watching Cain to see what he would do with me.

The bartender placed the receiver down slowly.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" she asked.

I hesitated even as Cain was watching me.

I should have lied.

I had planned to lie.

I had practiced three different names on the road. Emma. Claire. Jane.

But fear makes fools of careful women.

"Ava," I said.

Cain went still in a manner barely enough for anyone else to notice. But I noticed.

I noticed how his hand, the one at his side, curled once into a fist.

The bartender's expression changed too.

Rafe looked from me to Cain. "Well, hell."

My blood chilled.

"What?" I asked.

Nobody answered.

I looked at Cain. "Why did he say that?"

Cain's face had gone unreadable.

"Last name," he said.

"No."

"Ava."

The way he said my name made my breath catch. I backed away from him.

"No," I whispered. "No, you don't get to do that."

His eyes sharpened. "Do what?"

"Say my name like you know me."

The bartender murmured, "Cain..."

He ignored her.

"Last name," he repeated.

I shook my head. "I'm leaving."

Cain moved then towards the window. He pushed the curtain aside with two fingers and looked out.

Every man in the room seemed to tense at once.

"What is it?" Grim asked from the corner.

I hadn't even noticed him before. He was bald, heavy and had tattooed hands folded on the table. His eyes were on Cain, not me.

Cain let the curtain fall.

"Black SUV," he said.

My heart stopped immediately.

No.

No, no, no.

The phone in my bag suddenly buzzed.

Everyone heard it.

Cain's eyes dropped to my bag with one move.

Slowly, with shaking fingers, I pulled the phone out.

The screen glowed with one message and from an unknown number:

You should not have gone into that bar, Ava.

The room tilted just then. I couldn't breathe.

Cain was in front of me before I realized he had moved. His voice dropped so low only I could hear it.

"Who is hunting you?"

I looked up at him, my hand clenched around the phone, my whole body cold.

Outside, headlights swept across the bar window.

And Cain asked the question that made my heart stop.

"Who are you running from?"

CHAPTER THREE

Ava's POV

"Nobody."

The lie left my mouth too quickly.

I knew he heard it because his eyes sharpened like a blade being turned toward the light.

"Nobody," he repeated.

I lifted my chin even though my throat felt tight. "That's what I said."

The bar became too quiet.

Even the jukebox seemed to have lost its courage. The low music still played from the corner but it sounded far away now, buried under the weight of every stare in the room.

Cain stood in front of me, close enough that I could see the dark ink climbing from his wrist to his forearm. Thick lines. Strange shapes. A number half-hidden under the edge of his sleeve.

His hands were at his sides, not touching me. Still, I felt trapped.

"People who are running from nobody don't look like that," he said.

I swallowed. "Like what?"

His gaze moved over my face like he was reading a wound I had not shown him.

"Like the door behind them is still open," he said.

My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag. "That sounds poetic. You write warning signs for a living too?"

A rough laugh came from somewhere near the pool table. But it died the second Cain looked that way.

I should have been scared of how easily he commanded silence.

I actually was.

But another part of me, the part that had spent months praying somebody would notice without asking me to explain, hated that he noticed so much.

"I said I'm not running from anyone," I told him.

"No," Cain said. "You said nobody."

I stared at him. "Is there a difference?"

"There always is."

The bartender behind the counter shifted slightly, her red nails tapping once against the wood. She was watching me with something almost like pity, and I hated that too.

Pity made me feel small. And I had been small for too long.

"I just need somewhere to stay until morning," I said, forcing my voice steady. "Or a mechanic. Or both. I can pay."

A man at the bar snorted. "Can you?"

My eyes cut toward him.

He was older than the first one. Grey beard. Thick arms. A leather cut stretched over his shoulders. His grin was lazy but his eyes were not.

"That little bag doesn't look like it carries much," he said.

My cheeks burned. Before I could answer, another voice came from the back, careless and mean. "Maybe she can pay another way."

The room froze as Cain turned his head.

The man who had spoken sat near the wall with one boot propped on an empty chair. His smile slipped before he could hide it.

"What?" the man muttered. "I was joking."

Cain did not move for a second.bThen he walked.

The floorboards barely made a sound under his boots. That somehow made it worse. A man that big should have been loud. He should have announced himself with every step.

Cain did not.

People moved out of his way before he reached them.

The man near the wall lowered his boot from the chair.

"Cain," he said, lifting both hands. "Come on."

Cain stopped beside him.

The air in the bar changed again, drawing tighter around my lungs.

"You got something to say to her?" Cain asked.

The man's eyes flicked to me, then away. "No."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Cain leaned down slightly and it was enough to make the man shrink.

"Then don't use your mouth near her again."

My stomach dipped just then.

They should not have carried across the room but they did. Every man heard them. Every man understood them.

So did I.

I should have felt relieved.

Instead, anger came hot and sudden through the fear.

Cain straightened and turned back to me. His expression had not changed but something had been decided. Decided.

I felt it before he said a word.

He crossed the room and stopped beside me. His shoulder was near mine, wide and warm and solid, and the whole bar looked at us differently.

My heart started to pound.

"What are you doing?" I whispered.

Cain did not look at me.

He looked at the room.

"She's with me."

Three words.

That was all.

No explanation. No threat. No raised voice.

But the silence that followed was so complete it felt like the building itself had gone still.

The bartender's lips parted.

The grey-bearded man at the bar looked down into his drink.

The first drunk, the one who had blocked the door, leaned back in his chair and suddenly found the floor interesting.

My skin went cold.

Then hot.

Then cold again.

I turned to Cain slowly. "Excuse me?"

His eyes remained on the room. "You heard me."

"I am not with you."

"Tonight, you are."

A sound escaped me. Half laugh. Half disbelief. "No."

Cain finally looked down at me. Up close, he was worse. Way worse.

The scar through his brow pulled slightly when his eyes narrowed. His jaw looked like it had been carved from stone and then taught to be angry. He smelled faintly of smoke, leather and something clean underneath that I did not want to notice.

"No?" he asked.

"No," I snapped. "You don't get to stand beside me and announce ownership like I'm a misplaced jacket."

Something moved in his eyes but I couldn't tell what it was.

"You'd rather they think you're alone?"

"I am alone."

"That's the problem."

My breath caught.

I hated him for saying it.

I hated myself more for feeling the truth of it.

The men in the room were no longer looking at me the way they had when I came in. Their stares had shifted from hunger to caution. From curiosity to calculation.

Because of him.

Because he had said three words.

She's with me.

I stepped away from Cain. "I don't belong to anyone."

His gaze followed me. "Good."

I blinked. "Good?"

"You shouldn't."

"Then why did you say that?"

"Because they do."

I looked around the bar, noticing how no one met my eyes for long.

Cain's voice lowered, meant for me now. "You can hate me later. For tonight, you need them to believe it."

My anger faltered only for a second. Then I held onto it harder. "I don't need you to save me."

"No," he said. "You need a locked door and sleep."

The word sleep nearly broke something in me. Because I was tired. So tired that my bones felt hollow. Tired of driving. Tired of looking over my shoulder. Tired of pretending my hands did not shake when men spoke too calmly.

But I would rather collapse standing than admit that to Cain Harlow.

"I'm not staying here," I said.

"Car's dead."

"I'll walk."

"Road's dark."

"I've walked in the dark before."

His face tightened. I saw it and wished I had not.

"You got money?" he asked.

My pride rose before my answer did.

"Yes."

"How much?"

"That's none of your business."

"You got enough for a room somewhere else?"

I said nothing. And I knew he knew the truth.

Cain turned toward the bartender. "Mara."

He didn't need to say more. Mara reached beneath the counter and pulled out an old brass key attached to a wooden tag. Room 4 was scratched into it.

My eyes went to the key.

"No," I said immediately.

Cain took it from her. "Room upstairs. Door locks from the inside."

"I said no."

"You can leave in the morning."

"I can leave now."

"You can," he said.

The calmness of it stopped me. He held the key out, not moving closer, not forcing it into my hand.

"You can walk out now," he continued. "Nobody here will touch you."

His eyes moved briefly over the room. Every man suddenly looked very busy doing nothing.

"Not tonight," he added.

My mouth went dry.

Not tonight.

The words should have comforted me.

They did not.

Because tonight would end. Morning would come. Cain could not stand beside me forever, and I did not want him to.

I looked at the key again. My fingers ached from gripping my bag.

Mara's voice softened. "Take the room, sweetheart."

I looked at her.

She gave a small shrug. "You don't have to trust him. Trust the lock."

That almost made me laugh. Cain's arm remained extended, the key resting in his rough palm.

I took it without touching his skin. Still, I felt the heat of him.

"I'm paying for it," I said.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

My eyes narrowed. "Do you always answer women like that?"

Mara made a small sound behind the bar that might have been a laugh.

Cain's mouth did not move, but something flickered in his eyes. "Only stubborn ones."

"I'm not stubborn."

"You're shaking and still arguing with me."

I looked down.nMy hand was indeed trembling around the key.

Oh shit, I thought as I closed my fist until the metal bit into my palm.

Cain saw that too.

I was starting to think Cain Harlow saw everything.

"I'm not your problem," I said quietly.

"No," he replied. "You're in my bar."

"As if that makes a difference."

"It does here."

I did not know what to say to that.

The room had started breathing again. Low conversations returned in pieces but quieter than before. A glass clinked. A chair creaked. The jukebox crackled through a new song.

Still, I felt marked.

I didn't know how to feel about that even as Cain stepped toward the staircase at the back of the room and said with a gruff voice, "Come on."

I did not move.

He stopped and looked back.

"I can find it myself," I said.

His eyes dropped to my bag, then to my face. "I know."

"Then why are you waiting?"

"Because Rafe is still looking at you."

My spine stiffened but I refused to turn around.

Cain's gaze shifted past me in a cold silent manner. A chair scraped. Then nothing. Cain looked at me again. "Now he's not."

I hated the small rush of relief that went through me.

I hated it so much I walked past him quickly just to escape it.

The staircase was narrow and steep. The railing was old wood, smooth in some places, splintered in others. The walls were covered in faded posters for bands I had never heard of and black-and-white photos of motorcycles lined up under stormy skies.

Cain followed behind me, close enough that I knew no one else would.

At the top, a dim hallway stretched ahead. Four doors. Yellow light. A small round window at the far end showing nothing but dark glass and fog.

Cain pointed to the last door on the left. "Room four."

I stopped outside it and shoved the key into the lock.

My hand slipped the first time. Then again. Cain said nothing.

That made it worse.

"Don't," I snapped.

"I didn't."

"You were about to."

"No."

I finally got the door open and pushed inside.

The room was small but clean. A narrow bed. A wooden chair. A chipped dresser. A lamp with a crooked shade. One window with thin curtains. The air smelled faintly of soap, old wood, and rain.

No luxury. No softness. But it had four walls, a door, a lock. That was enough.

My throat tightened.

Cain was in the hallway when I turned to face him. "What do you want?"

His brows drew together. "Nothing."

"No one does this for nothing."

He studied me for a moment.

Then his eyes moved, not to my mouth or my body, but to the hand gripping my bag like it was the last piece of my life.

"Lock the door," he said.

"That's it?"

"Lock it."

"And then what?"

"Sleep."

I laughed softly. "You make it sound easy."

"It isn't."

The honesty of that silenced me.

For a second, neither of us spoke.

Downstairs, a burst of rough laughter rose and died quickly. Somewhere outside, wind pushed against the side of the building. The window gave a faint rattle.

I should have closed the door.

I did not.

Cain's eyes held mine.

"Why?" I asked.

His face remained unreadable. "Why what?"

"Why protect me?"

The hallway seemed to grow colder. Cain's jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought he would answer.

Instead, he stepped back.

"Lock the door, Ava."

My name again. Like he knew it. Like it had already been in his mouth before tonight.

A chill moved through me.

"How do you say my name like that?" I whispered.

Cain did not answer. He simply turned and walked away.

I stood in the doorway, watching his broad back disappear down the hall and then down the stairs. Only when I could no longer hear his boots did I shut the door.

I locked it. Then I checked it. Then I checked it again.

The room was too quiet.

I set my bag on the bed but did not open it. I sat beside it, still wearing my boots, the key pressed into my palm so hard it left marks.

Sleep did not come.

I kept my eyes on the door.

Hours passed that way. Or minutes. Time had gone strange on me.

My body begged me to lie down but fear kept me upright.

Because I did not understand Cain Harlow.

I did not understand why a dangerous stranger would stand between me and a room full of men.

I did not understand why he claimed me like a possession and then did not touch me.

I did not understand why his voice made me feel safer and more afraid at the same time.

And I did not understand why, when he looked at me, it felt less like he was meeting me...

And more like he had been waiting for me.

Who was he, I wondered with a rapid heartbeat in my chest.

Who was he really?