s. Only paths we had not kn

Gavri

------

were lined with half-finished canvases, the fabric stretched too tight, frayed around the edges. It had been nine days of this-surrounded by a mess that reflected my inner chaos. A shelf that should have held books now overflowed wi

hicago and start over somewhere else. All I needed was one year. Nine days were already behind me, three hundred and fifty-seve

vy pile on top of my head and focused back on the strokes. Bold, fiery brushstrokes slashed across the surface-deep crimson and molten oranges erupting from the top, slowly givin

sed against the fierce, monstrous figure. But the pigeon's steel-blue eyes, gleaming with a dangerous light,

e piece Ren

lit between two worlds: on the left, the fierce dragon, flames licking at the edges of a dark hallway in a crumbling castle. On the righ

ature and his circumstance. A creature of both

evening. My stomach growled in protest, my fingers aching from hours of nonstop painting. Yet,

troke. That was the magic and the curse of it. It's why Mother never let me paint at home. She sa

et had dwindled down to a more normal home supply. I'd need to venture out eventually, or keep living like some recluse, buying everything off a web

could be anywhere, watching, waiting. By now, I was sure their search had gone wild. Mother would be crying, pleading with Father to find me, while he grumbled under the weakness of her demands. Vi was pro

ably be stuck out there in the streets, or recaptured and trapped in

- the one where he had left his phone number with the casual offer to call if I ever needed anything. I hadn't. And I didn't plan to. No sim card to reach out, no social media na

reach out.

murmur in the background. I moved to the kitchen, setting up a pot and heading to th

y stomach, its thudding t

fat

d fou

ut I didn't need to. They were ruthless in tracking people down-enemies, traito

gain, harder thi

g to avoid even the faintest sound. But the televisio

I lifted my feet and padded quietly towards the door

my attention. I had no choice, as that door was my only exit

ight. God. Probably tied upsid

ng the key in the lock. The moment the sound clicked,

on a pair of black combat boots, scuffed and smeared with mud. Dusty, ripped jeans were the next things I noticed, before

n't doing

hell was

hand. The other hand? Crouching over a small box. My mind raced to catch up. The black T-shi

oo

ocketed. My b

glimpse of his face under the mop o

nz

foot dragging behind the other as if every step cost him something. Blood trickled

ked like he should be in a hospital, no

with pain. He shoved past me before I could even react or le

the dinning area. His arm swung out, knocking over whatever was in his

s voice was rough when it came thi

indow shut, the hinges creaking as I locked them with trembling hands. The fear that gripped me was

box I assumed to be a makeshift first aid kit. He, too, was disoriented. My heart raced, so loud I was sure he could hear it. The reality

c fl

ther would find me in no time, and my life would be over. That was the selfish part of me

this man. For all his dark edges, for all the danger surrounding him, I

ed more

is side, indicating he'd been sliced there, I had to take a step back. The sheer s

re they were drowned out by his agonized groan. "You'r