I Killed the Groom My Father Picked for Me

I scrambled out from under his body, my breaths coming in short, panicked gasps.

The stranger lowered his gun, stepping closer, his face finally illuminated by a flickering streetlamp.

He looked like he’d been carved out of stone—sharp jawline, dark stubble, messy hair falling over narrowed eyes that seemed to size me up in seconds. His leather jacket was worn, his boots scuffed. But damn! He's fucking handsome.

“Are you gonna sit there all night, or are you getting up?” he asked, voice dry.

I pushed myself to my feet, wobbling slightly on my heels. He frowned at them.

“You’re running from people trying to kill you… in those?”

I scowled. “Sorry, didn’t exactly have time to change into my sneakers.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Who’s after you?”

“None of your business,” I shot back.

“Lady, I just killed a man for you. It’s my business now.”

I hesitated, biting my lip. His gaze was intense, sharp like he could see straight through me.

“My father,” I said finally. “Nikolai Romanov. He promised me to Viktor Ivanov, and when I said no… things got messy.”

He let out a low whistle. “Romanov and Ivanov. You’ve really pissed off the worst people in this city, princess.”

“Stop calling me that,” I snapped.

“What’s your name, then?”

“Cassandra.”

He nodded, tucking his gun back into his jacket. “Vincent.”

For a moment, we just stared at each other, the distant sound of approaching sirens filling the silence.

“Look,” he said, glancing down the alley, “you’re bleeding, you’re in heels, and you’ve got half the damn mafia hunting you. You’re not gonna make it on your own.”

“And what? You’re offering to help me out of the kindness of your heart?”

He smirked slightly, but there was no humor in it. “Let’s just say I’ve got nothing better to do tonight.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, wincing when my shoulder flared with pain. “Why should I trust you?”

Vincent’s smile faded, his gaze hardening. “You shouldn’t. But right now, I’m your best shot at surviving the night. So, what’s it gonna be, Cassandra? Run blindly into the dark, or stick with the guy who’s still got bullets left?”

My stomach twisted. Every instinct I had screamed not to trust him, but… he was right. Alone, I was dead.

“Fine,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “But if you try anything, I’ll put a bullet in you myself.”

He barked out a short laugh. “Fair enough, princess.”

I rolled my eyes and followed him as he led me deeper into the shadows.

The city loomed around us, dark and sprawling, and somewhere out there, my father’s men were still hunting me.

But at least now, I wasn’t running alone.

***

Vincent’s so-called hideout wasn’t exactly what I expected.

The door creaked loudly as he shoved it open, revealing a dingy apartment that smelled faintly of cigarettes and regret. The furniture looked like it had been salvaged from a thrift store fire—torn cushions, chipped wood, and a coffee table held together with duct tape. A half-empty whiskey bottle sat next to an overflowing ashtray.

“Welcome to paradise,” Vincent muttered, throwing his jacket over the back of a chair.

I didn’t bother hiding my grimace. “You live here?”

“No,” he said flatly. “I just bring princesses here for fun.”

I shot him a glare, kicking off my ruined heels by the door. My feet screamed in relief as I padded barefoot across the cracked linoleum.

“Bathroom’s down the hall,” he said, nodding toward a narrow doorway. “You’re a mess. Clean up before you bleed all over my floor.”

I was too tired to argue. The adrenaline from earlier was wearing off, leaving behind a throbbing pain in my shoulder and a dull ache in my ribs. I shuffled to the bathroom, flipping on the flickering light.

The mirror above the sink showed the damage: smudged makeup, matted hair, blood streaking down my arm and staining the once-beautiful dress my father had insisted I wear tonight. My eyes were puffy, my lip split, and there was dried blood caked under my nails.

I looked like hell, but at least I was alive.

I peeled off the dress, wincing as it stuck to my wounds. The water from the tap was freezing, but I didn’t care. I scrubbed at my skin until it was raw, washing away the blood, dirt, and whatever lingering scent of 'him' still clung to me.

When I came out, wearing a too-big hoodie Vincent had tossed in my direction, I found him sprawled on the couch, his boots kicked up on the coffee table. He was nursing a glass of whiskey, the bottle within easy reach.

“You clean up nice,” he said without looking at me.

“Bite me,” I shot back, sitting down on the only other chair in the room.

For a while, the only sound was the faint hum of traffic outside.

“What’s your plan?” he asked finally, his voice calm but curious.

I blinked at him. “My 'plan'?”