Two Villains

Ch. 3- Introducing The Volkners

I am so sorry.

Calling him a beautiful man would be an understatement; he was the most beautiful human that could exist.

Despite the darkness of the alley, I could see him perfectly as I stood so close to him. I wouldn't compare his beauty to that of any celebrity or model. No, he didn't resemble a Michelangelo sculpture carved from stone, nor did he look like a Greek god. He didn't resemble any of the fictional men I daydreamed about, nor did he remind me of any of my past crushes.

His face was perfect. It had soft features, yet it exuded masculinity with its sharp V-shaped jawline, cleft chin, and high cheekbones, all cleanly shaven. A few strands of dark, slightly wavy hair cascaded from his head and brushed against his forehead, partially concealing his eyes.

His eyes—his eyes were something to die for. They were perfectly blue, gently glowing in the dim light of the alley, framed by long, dark lashes. His eyes had the ideal hue and shade of blue—not too light, not too dark. In the darkness, his skin appeared tan, darker than the average Italian but lighter than my own Bengali complexion. Even though I considered myself fair in my country, he was fairer than me. Veins traced an upward path on his arms, visible as one of his hands gently clasped my arm.

Both mischief and kindness danced in his gaze as he fixed his eyes on my face. There was a small, wicked grin on his perfect, pouty lips. Maybe I was staring at him too intently because he seemed to notice my awe.

A faint blush tinged his cheeks, and he lowered his gaze away from me. Then, with a mischievous expression, he turned his attention to the group of men.

My jaw dropped on the street.

For a brief moment, I forgot where I was. It felt as if he and I were the only two people in the universe. My heart fluttered with indescribable emotions.

"Sure she's yours? She looked like a whore."

The leader replied to him from that group of goons. I jumped out of my pondering sense and heard what they called me.

Whore.

A man, never knowing me called me a whore.

In that moment, 20 years of trauma flashed before my eyes, and the word echoed in my ears. Whore. Yes, I was a whore indeed.

The buzzing sound returned, louder and more persistent than before. My heart pounded in my chest like a thunderclap, and my other arm, where those vile men had touched me, felt like it was on fire.

"That's none of your concern," another smooth male voice warned from behind us. I noticed him ever so slightly raising his jacket, revealing two guns tucked into his holster. I couldn't focus on his face, as he seemed vaguely Italian. I was nearly vibrating with anger and disgust.

The group of goons slowly faded from my view, and the buzzing in my head grew even louder. I started to lose track of where I was and what had just happened.

The only thing that kept repeating in my mind was that goon's foul breath, his disgusting touch on my body, and the derogatory name he had called me.

Whore.

Whore.

Whore.

The words kept echoing inside my head, relentless and unyielding, drowning out any attempt to silence them. My hands began to shake uncontrollably, and sweat poured from my trembling palms.

"Do you need us to take you somewhere safer?"

The beautiful man spoke with genuine concern in his voice, but it sounded distant and muffled, as if I were underwater. I didn't even notice when he let go of me. Another man with a gun approached, asking, "Miss, are you alright?" He had an American accent and a deep sense of concern in his voice.