The taste of bitter coffee lingered on Draven's tongue, almost unbearable without sugar or cream. But he didn't mind—it kept him grounded, tethered to the mundane as his mind wandered. He leaned back in his chair, gazing out of the café window at the passing world. The coffee shop wasn't his usual kind of place, but he had wandered in on a whim, searching for a quiet moment to gather his thoughts.
Life had shifted since he had walked away from George's gang. The blood, the chaos—it all seemed like another lifetime, though the scars still ached. Now, he spent his days scrubbing dishes and his evenings avoiding trouble. It wasn't glamorous, but it was peace, or so he told himself.
The low murmur of conversation around him was a comforting hum until a familiar voice caught his attention. His hand froze mid-reach for his coffee. He tilted his head slightly, not wanting to be obvious, and his eyes darted toward the source.
Klara.
She sat at a table not far from him, her profile illuminated by the soft light of the café. Her friends surrounded her—two women, both engrossed in the conversation. He hadn't expected to see her again so soon, let alone in a place like this. He hadn't even realized he was holding his breath until her voice rang out, sharp and full of emotion.
"I don't care what he wants," Klara said, her tone biting. "I've told him a hundred times—I'm done with his world. Done with all of it."
One of her friends, a petite woman with dark hair, leaned closer. "You know he won't just let you go, Klara. Your father's not exactly the forgiving type."
Klara let out a bitter laugh, her fingers gripping the edge of her coffee cup. "Let him try. I'm not afraid of him. He's ruined enough lives—I won't let him ruin mine, too."
Draven's chest tightened as he listened, the pieces of her story clicking into place. Peter. The name alone was enough to make his blood boil. He had known Peter as a ruthless mobster, a man who thrived on fear and destruction. Hearing Klara's defiance stirred something in him—admiration, perhaps, or something deeper.
One of the other women placed a hand on Klara's arm. "You're brave, but you need to be careful. People like your father don't just let go."
"I'll handle it," Klara snapped, though the slight tremble in her voice betrayed her. "I have to."
Draven couldn't look away. She wasn't just beautiful; she was a force of nature, standing against a storm she couldn't possibly weather alone. He felt an ache in his chest, a strange and sudden need to protect her—not because she wanted him to, but because she clearly had no one else.
The women continued talking, their voices lowering, and Draven turned his gaze to his coffee, forcing himself to focus. Eavesdropping wasn't exactly noble, but he couldn't bring himself to leave.
When Klara and her friends finally stood to leave, he followed on instinct, staying a few steps behind. She walked ahead of the group, her posture tense, as though she were carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Draven told himself he was being careful, but his eyes lingered too long on her—on the way her hair caught the sunlight, on the determined set of her jaw. He felt like a fool, but he couldn't stop.
It wasn't long before Klara noticed him. She stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, her friends moving on without her. She turned to face him, her eyes narrowing.
"Are you following me?" she demanded, her voice cold.
Draven froze, his hands slipping into his pockets. "I was just—"
"Save it," she interrupted, her eyes blazing with anger. "I don't know who you are, but I don't need some stranger tailing me like a lost puppy."
"I wasn't—"
"Don't lie to me." She took a step closer, her finger pointing at his chest. "You think I didn't notice you staring at me back there? What, you think you're some kind of knight in shining armor? Let me make something very clear: I don't need saving, and I definitely don't need you."
Her words stung more than he expected, though he kept his expression neutral. "I wasn't trying to bother you," he said quietly. "I just…"
"What?" she snapped, crossing her arms. "You just what? Thought you'd come and swoop in to fix my life?"
Draven sighed, shaking his head. "You're right. I shouldn't have followed you. I'm sorry."
The sincerity in his voice gave her pause, but her glare didn't waver. "Good. Then stay out of my business."
She turned on her heel and walked away, her friends waiting for her a few paces ahead. Draven watched her go, his heart heavy. He hadn't meant to upset her, but his intentions didn't matter. She was right—she didn't need him.
But as he stood there, watching her disappear into the crowd, he couldn't shake the feeling that she was in danger. Whether she wanted it or not, he knew he couldn't just walk away.
"Protect her," he muttered under his breath, the words barely audible. "From her father, from herself…whatever it takes."
For the first time in years, Draven felt a sense of purpose—one that didn't involve bloodshed or revenge. He wasn't sure how he would protect her or what it would cost him, but he knew one thing: he wasn't going to let her face Peter's wrath alone.
As he walked back toward the restaurant, his resolve hardened. Klara might hate him now, but that didn't matter. He had made a promise to himself, and he intended to keep it.