The alley stank of piss and fish guts, and Yara could barely hear her own heartbeat over the thrum of blood in her ears.
Her breath came in ragged bursts. The bruises on her ribs throbbed in time with every step, every painful jolt of motion as she sprinted through narrow lanes, past closed shutters and half-lit lanterns. The goons were behind her—probably unconscious or at least too dazed to give chase after she'd smashed one in the throat with a fallen beam and kicked another into the alley wall.
But that didn't mean she was safe.
Not here.
Not anymore.
Her boots splashed through a broken gutter. A dog barked in the distance. The town had been quiet when she slipped out under cover of dusk—quiet enough to think she could leave unnoticed.
Stupid. She should've known Rolen had eyes in every shadow.
