NATASIA STOLE A WALLET.

Her throat was dry, legs were sore but she kept running and running and running and for once she didn't stop because she was scared he'd find her again and she'd be forced into that same hole she tried so hard to crawl out of and she wasn't even sure where she was going, there wasn't a way for her to know because she wasn't thinking things through and it was dark and thinking of a route wasn't a part of her plan in the first place but she still kept going and running and then pausing because her lungs felt as if they were squeezed out of air and the world suddenly began to spin at her feet and her fingers became numb and tingly and she stared at them, how shaky they were and she was startled because she wasn't sure if the weather was too cold or if she was just dehydrated, but in the end that didn't matter because she'd already reached the club which meant that she could just go in and catch her breath.

Natasia could pray and hope and pray again that the man wasn't still chasing her, she hadn't looked back and she wasn't planning to... yet.

She stumbled into a bar, and the sudden bursts of colour felt like an attack on her eyes, growing worse because she was dizzy. Natasia smelled drugs and intoxicants, and the air felt sinful, and she was still very confused as to where she was. And it was probably not wise for her to take a break because-

"She's a thief!" The man was yelling, and it didn't sound like it was from very far away. She gasped, hurrying to cover herself amongst people but it proved to be useless because he'd already spotted her. "STOP HER!"

The music came to a halt, and so did her heartbeat when she realized everyone had been staring at her. And she was crying, silently, tears streaming down her cheeks rapidly and they would not stop. 

"She stole my wallet!" he yelled again. "Fucking whores I swear to god-,"

"Watch your mouth." A woman replied with an equal amount of aggressiveness, and Natasia wanted to curl up in a ball and die, right then, and especially when she felt a soft hand on her shoulder. It was a rich people party, everyone was dressed in satin and leather jackets and she stood there in rags. It was humiliating.

The man paused for a very short moment, and stared at Natasia, and lunged at her a second later, and she didn't stop him. Yelling and shouting and chaos echoed through the room but Natasia didn't care, she kept at it, with every last strand of her being, she was hungry, tired, barely alive but she couldn't do anything about it, she was so focused on survival that very second that she did not realize she'd knocked him out completely. Natasia only realized what she had done after she stepped away, which she was forced to do.

"Get up," She heard another male voice say to her. She did not have the nerve to look up to see who it was. All she saw was his hand, which he held out to her, and with her tears still overflowing, she took it and he suddenly let go and grabbed onto her wrist instead, and he dragged her outside.

When the cold air hit her face, she opened her eyes, and he'd lightly pushed her to the brick wall. She could not find herself having the strength to meet his eyes. He raised his hand, and she turned away, thinking he was going to slap her, and even if he did, she wouldn't be upset because she deserved it, in the end. He did not slap her, but instead, he rested his handkerchief on the wound on her forehead and pressed.

Warmth. 

"Am I applying pressure properly, senora?" He asked, and Natasia's eyes immediately widened as she looked up, to see that blue-eyed man from two months ago, standing in front of her, caging her to the wall, and applying pressure to the wound on her forehead with a handkerchief. Her face had turned bright red, and she looked down again.

Then he grabbed her throat, gently, tilted it up so that she was forced to look up at him, and everything she thought she didn't feel for him the first time came flooding back.

She was not strong around him, most certainly not now, and her skin felt hot, the anxiety was so apparent it felt like, and yet, the man did nothing to ease it. As if he wanted her to suffer like she was. "Who are you."

It was not a question, but it was. It sounded more like a threat than anything. She swallowed her spit. "Natasia."

"What happened to you?" he asked, his eyes running over her torn clothes and tear stained face. She looked filthy.

He started to drag her somewhere, but Natasia was reluctant like she always was, but he didn't seem like he would tolerate it this time. He flipped her over his shoulder, carried her up the stairs where he rested her on the bed.

Natasia began to cry again. Not because she was scared of him, but because she was ashamed. She couldn't begin to think about what could ensue after this, it scared her.

But he brought a first aid kit and sat opposite to her, and he held her hand, gently, as he cleaned her wounds with saline. She flinched and he held her back, giving her a look. "Why did you do that if you knew something like this would happen?"

Pause. "I have a year's worth of rent to pay. A job that pays me below minimum wage, and a sick, alcoholic uncle. What else was I supposed to do?"

He looked up, back at her, and she couldn't muster a smile or anything to cover up what she was feeling, and the man must have noticed because the way he stared made her feel like he knew about her already, everything that there was to know.

"Not stealing," he responded, "Find a better job and leave your uncle. I hope he hasn't done this."

Natasia figured he was referring to the wound on the side of her head, and swallowed. "Thanks for the advice."

He didn't respond, and kept dressing her wound.

"Do you pity me?"

"No."

"Are you lying?"

"Is there a good reason for me to lie?" he asked coldly, as he put the first aid kit back in its place. Natasia sat on the bed, shocked still, her heart pounding, hand still tingling where he'd planted his touch.

The man grabbed her by the wrist again, without a word, leading her down the stairs again and she pulled back again and he turned around, giving her a look, asking her why she did that and she was unable to look back into his eyes again. "Don't you think this is a good time to tell me your name since I've told you mine?"

Pause. Staring. A glare. Silence again. Searching gazes. A slight smile. "Alexander Romanos."

"Romanos? Like?" she asked with wide eyes and pursed lips. There was a hint of curiosity in his eyes.

His grip on her wrist tightened, as his lips stretched up into a sarcastic smile.  "Enough questions."

He dragged her down, harsher, like he was trying to assert dominance but she couldn't help but smile at him. The way he carried himself was so harsh, but he was kind enough to tend her wounds. Was it because she'd taken care of his that day?