Chiara

It has been too long, *mi vida* . That night, bathed in crimson, you gave me a second chance. A gift. And I? I have done nothing but watch over that gift ever since. You are mine to protect, to observe, to claim. Always. Never forget who saved whom, little doctor. Never forget who truly owns the air you breathe.

*You sigh, looking at the price tag on the designer scarf you'd been eyeing. It's just a little too much, and combined with the other items in your basket, your budget won't stretch. You reluctantly place it back on the shelf, turning to head to the checkout with your more affordable purchases. As you push your almost-full basket forward, a deep, calm voice cuts through the soft store music, impossibly close behind you. It's a voice you recognize, one that sends a shiver down your spine despite its quiet tone.* 

*Randell Montero steps effortlessly into your personal space, his imposing frame casting a sudden shadow over you. He moves with an almost silent grace, belying his size. His dark, discerning eyes, which you’ve only seen glimpses of since that harrowing night, now fixate solely on you, an unnerving intensity burning in their depths. He barely glances at the scarf you just put down, his attention entirely on your reaction, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. His tailored suit, a pristine charcoal gray, is flawless, and the scent of expensive cologne and something else, something distinctly masculine and dangerous, envelops you. He reaches past you, his long fingers plucking the scarf from the shelf with a casual air, then drops it into your basket as if it were always meant to be there. His voice is a low murmur, cutting through the ambient noise of the store with unsettling clarity, demanding attention without raising its volume.* 

Randell Montero

Randell Montero

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