Chapter 1
I wandered down the busy downtown sidewalk my nose buried deep in Whispers of the Forgotten Crown, completely tuned out from the honking cars and evening rush. My canvas tote bag bounced against my hip, stuffed with bookmarks, a half-eaten protein bar, noise-canceling earbuds I'd forgotten to use, and my trusty mini first-aid kit the one my grandma had forced on me years ago, convinced I'd need it one day with how accident prone I am. Streetlights were just flickering on, casting that hazy orange glow over the concrete as the city shifted into night mode. Having just got off of work.
A sharp shout cut through the traffic noise up ahead. Low, aggressive voices followed. I slowed, peering over the top of my book. Two sketchy guys had cornered another man in the narrow alley between a coffee shop and a closed nail salon. The guy they'd trapped stood tall and weirdly calm, one hand near his jacket pocket. Before I could process it, the bigger attacker swung hard. The crack of fist meeting face made me wince, adrenaline spiking through me.
"Hey!" My voice came out louder than I meant. I snapped the book shut, heart slamming against my ribs. "Leave him alone or I'm calling the cops right now!"
The two men spun around. Their eyes narrowed at me glasses, messy ponytail, and clutching a paperback like a shield but something changed in their faces. They muttered about "territory" and "not worth the heat," then bolted down the alley like they'd seen a ghost, sneakers slapping pavement until they disappeared around the corner.
My pulse was still racing as I hurried over. The blond guy leaned casually against the brick wall, pressing a crisp white handkerchief to the cut with his right hand. I noticed the ink immediately bold, dark tattoos covering the back of that hand, intricate lines that looked like they told a story I probably didn't want to know. His left hand, the one resting at his side, had a striking tattoo on the pointer finger: a detailed, almost realistic pointing hand design, like it was directing fate itself. Kinda hot...I didn't linger on it.
He looked totally unfazed, like this was just another Tuesday annoyance. Golden-blond hair caught the streetlight glow, and when he looked up, striking blue-green eyes locked onto mine his eyes that somehow looked both stormy and electric at the same time.
"Are you okay?" I asked my voice softer now.
"I'm fine," he said. His voice was low and smooth, with a faint accent I couldn't quite place. The corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.
"No, you're not. You're bleeding." I set my book in my tote and started digging inside. Out came the small pink first-aid kit covered in faded unicorn stickers and glittery stars. I flipped it open, grabbed the brightest bandage tiny cartoon hearts and rainbows and stepped closer without overthinking it.
"Hold still," I murmured. I gently pressed the bandage over the split on his cheekbone, hyper-aware of how close I was to those tattooed hands.
The sight was ridiculous: this staggeringly tall, composed stranger now sporting my super girly, kiddish bandage. "There you go. All better."
I stepped back my cheeks warming for no reason, and reached for my book again out of my bag. A weird little spark lingered on my fingertips where I'd touched his face.
"Wait," he said as I turned. "What's your name?"
I hesitated, glancing over my shoulder. "Frankie."
A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, softening the sharp lines of his jaw. "Leonard."
I gave a small wave, trying to act casual. "Try to stay out of trouble, Leonard."
As I walked away, nose already dipping back toward my book, I could feel his eyes following me down the sidewalk. For the first time in weeks, the words on the page blurred not from the city lights, but from the memory of those blue-green eyes, the unexpected tattoos on his hands, and the ridiculous little bandage I'd left on a stranger who looked like he belonged in the pages of my romance novels more than in this noisy, ordinary street.
I let myself into the quiet little townhouse, the front door creaking softly as I stepped inside. The lights were off, same as when I'd left this morning. Dad was gone again off on one of his "quick trips" that usually stretched into weeks, chasing whatever deal kept him away. Mom had texted earlier: Stuck in Chicago until Friday at least. Order something healthy; love you. Classic.
I kicked off my shoes in the narrow entryway and dropped my tote on the kitchen counter, the ridiculous pink first-aid kit still peeking out. My mind kept drifting back to those blue-green eyes and the absurd rainbow bandage I'd plastered on a stranger's face. Leonard. I shook it off. He was probably trouble. Definitely trouble, judging by those tattoos. Besides why would someone like him ever like someone like me?
Dinner was going to be zero effort tonight. I ripped open a frozen TV dinner some sad-looking chicken alfredo and shoved it into the microwave. While it hummed, I grabbed the half-empty package of chocolate chip cookies from the pantry and started snacking straight from the bag, crumbs scattering across the counter like I didn't care. Because I didn't. Not really. The cookies were soft and sweet, the perfect distraction while the microwave beeped its sad little victory song.
I carried the steaming plastic tray and the cookie package over to the living room couch, curling up under my favorite oversized blanket. The small townhouse felt too quiet tonight, the familiar creaks of the old floors and the distant hum of neighborhood traffic the only sounds. I scrolled past the news, past gritty unsolved crime dramas and landed on The Princess Diaries. Yeah, it was childish. Girly. Comforting. Anne Hathaway's awkward transformation into royalty was exactly the kind of fluffy escape I needed after the weird adrenaline of the evening.
I munched another cookie, sauce from the TV dinner dripping onto the tray as I laughed at the Genovian pear scene for the hundredth time. The cozy but empty rooms around me felt a little too big. For a second I wondered what Leonard was doing right now probably pressing a real bandage instead of my cartoon one? Laughing about the weird girl who'd yelled at his attackers?
I pushed the thought away and turned up the volume, letting the familiar soundtrack drown out the loneliness. Tomorrow I'd get back to real life: my shift at the bookstore, more chapters of Whispers of the Forgotten Crown, maybe actually cook something that didn't come in plastic. Tonight, though? Tonight was cookies, microwaved pasta, and a princess who didn't need anyone except when she secretly did.
But as Mia clumsily navigated royal life on screen, my mind wandered again to that slow smile and those tattooed hands. I hugged the blanket tighter, ignoring the little flutter in my chest that had nothing to do with the movie.
The movie was just hitting the ballroom scene when the knocking started sharp, impatient raps against the front door of the townhouse. I paused the TV, cookie halfway to my mouth and my heart still a little fluttery from earlier thoughts of Leonard. It was late. Too late for neighbors or delivery.
The knocking turned aggressive, fists pounding like they wanted to break the wood. "Open the damn door!"
My stomach dropped. I crept toward the entryway, phone already in my hand. Through the peephole, I saw three bulky men, dressed in dark jackets, faces hard under the porch light. One had a tattoo peeking from his collar that looked uncomfortably similar to the ink I'd seen on Leonard's hands.
I cracked the door with the chain still on. "Who are you? What do you want?"
They didn't waste time. The biggest one shoved his shoulder against the door, snapping the chain like it was nothing. I stumbled back as they pushed inside, the door slamming shut behind them. My phone clattered to the floor.
"Where's the money?" the leader snarled, crowding me against the wall. His breath smelled like cigarettes and menace.
"I—I don't know what you're talking about," I stammered my voice cracking. Confusion and fear hit me like ice water. Tears stung my eyes immediately. "Please, you have the wrong person—"
"Wrong person my ass." A second man grabbed my arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "Your father owes us two hundred and fifty grand. Marcus Reed skipped town with our cash, and now you're gonna make it right."
Marcus Reed. My dad. The name landed like a punch. Of course. His "quick trips," the hushed phone calls, the way bills sometimes mysteriously got paid then fell behind again. I'd always suspected something was off, but not this.
"I don't have that kind of money!" I cried, trying to pull away. My back hit the wall. "He's gone—he doesn't even live here half the time. Please, I'm just—"
The third man pulled a gun, the matte black barrel glinting as he pressed it to my temple. Cold metal against my skin. My knees nearly buckled. "You've got one week, little girl. Seven days to get us what your old man stole. Or we come back and take it out of you and this cute little house."
Tears streamed down my face. I was shaking so hard I could barely breathe. "Please... I work at a bookstore. I don't—"
The leader backhanded me across the mouth, hard. Pain exploded across my lip. I tasted blood instantly, warm and metallic, dripping down my chin onto my shirt. My head snapped sideways and I gasped, tasting copper.
"That's just a taste," he growled. "One week, Clock's ticking."
They shoved me to the floor and stormed out, the door banging behind them. I stayed there on my knees for what felt like forever, sobbing quietly, blood from my split lip dripping onto the hardwood. The TV still played faintly in the background princess music that now felt mocking in the empty townhouse.
My hand pressed to my bleeding mouth as the reality sank in. Dad had dragged me into this. And those men... they knew exactly who I was.
I crawled toward my phone, vision blurry with tears, mind flashing unwillingly to Leonard's calm blue-green eyes and those dangerous tattooed hands. Part of me wondered if a man like him could even help or if he'd just make everything worse.
I stayed on the floor for what felt like hours, sobs wracking my body as pain throbbed through my split lip. Blood kept dripping down my chin onto my shirt warm and sticky. Every time I touched it, fresh tears spilled over. Why Dad? Why me? The questions looped uselessly in my head while the TV played on in the background, the cheerful princess music now sounding cruel.
Eventually I dragged myself up, my legs shaky and stumbled to the door. I slammed it shut and threw the deadbolt, then added the chain even though it was useless after they'd snapped it earlier. My hands wouldn't stop trembling. I thought about calling the police but the words of the leader echoed One week, If I called the cops now, would it just make things worse? Would they even believe me, or would Dad's mess drag me deeper into whatever criminal hole he'd dug?
I didn't call. Not yet.
Instead, I made my way to the bathroom, gripping the counter as I looked in the mirror. My lower lip was swollen and split right in the middle, still oozing blood. I grabbed the pink first-aid kit from my tote—ironic, after using it on Leonard earlier and fumbled with antiseptic wipes. The sting made me hiss and cry harder.
A frantic knock sounded at the door a few minutes later lighter, familiar. "Frankie? You okay in there? I saw those guys leaving!"
Noah. My best friend from across the street. I hurried over as fast as my shaky legs would go and let him in. He took one look at my face and his eyes widened in horror.
"Oh my God, Frankie!" Noah pulled me into a tight hug, careful not to press on my mouth. He was tall and lanky with bright purple streaks in his hair, always smelling faintly of vanilla latte and hair product. "What the hell happened? Sit down, now."
He guided me to the couch, grabbing paper towels and ice from the kitchen like he owned the place which, honestly, he basically did on nights like this. While I cried and tried to explain between sobs, he gently cleaned the blood from my chin and lip.
"Some men... they said my dad owes them two hundred and fifty thousand dollars," I whispered, wincing as he dabbed antiseptic on the cut. "They gave me a week or they'll... they'll come back."
Noah's face hardened, but his touch stayed soft. "Bastards. Did they call the cops? No? Okay, we're reporting this tomorrow morning whether you like it or not. For now, hold this ice on your lip. It's gonna bruise like hell, but you're safe. I'm staying right here tonight."
He fussed over me the way only Noah could gay best friend mode in full protective glory. He made me herbal tea, found my favorite oversized hoodie, and curled up on the couch with me under the blanket, turning off The Princess Diaries and putting on a mindless baking show instead. Every few minutes he'd check my lip or squeeze my hand.
"You're not facing this alone, babe," he said firmly, brushing hair from my forehead. "We'll figure out your idiot father later. Right now you're breathing and that's what matters."
I leaned my head on his shoulder, the adrenaline finally crashing and leaving me exhausted. The pain in my lip pulsed with every heartbeat, a sharp reminder of how quickly everything had gone wrong. But even as Noah chattered about distracting me with gossip, my mind kept drifting back to Leonard the calm in the alley, those tattooed hands, and that slow smile.
Part of me wondered if a man like him moved in the same dangerous circles as the ones who'd just hurt me. Another part the stupid, romance-novel part wondered if those same hands could keep me safe.
For tonight, though, I had Noah. And tomorrow... tomorrow I'd have to face whatever came next.
The next morning came too soon. My lip throbbed like a heartbeat, swollen and angry, the split crusted over but still tender. Noah had stayed the night on the couch, and after coffee and a lot of arguing, he dragged me down to the small-town police station.
We sat across from a bored-looking officer who took notes without much interest. I told him everything the three men, the gun to my head, my dad's name, the two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar debt, the one-week deadline. Noah backed me up, describing the guys he'd seen leaving my place.
The cop leaned back in his chair and sighed. "Look, Miss Reed... these sound like collection types. Your father's the one who borrowed the money. Without concrete evidence tying specific individuals to the assault, or proof it's more than a civil debt dispute, there's not a lot we can do right now. We'll file a report, keep an eye on your address, but these things tend to sort themselves out when the debtor shows up."
Sort themselves out. I stared at him, my bruised lip stinging as I pressed it tight. Noah started arguing, but the officer just shrugged and slid some paperwork across the desk. "Call us if they come back. In the meantime, maybe reach out to your dad."
We left the station with nothing but a case number and a hollow feeling in my chest. Noah hugged me tight outside. "They're useless. You're staying with me tonight if you want. Or I'll crash at yours again."
I nodded numbly, thanked him, and headed to work.
The bookstore was only a ten-minute walk through our quiet downtown streets, but every shadow made me jump. My tote bag felt heavier than usual, the pink first-aid kit still inside like a mocking reminder of how naïve I'd been yesterday.
The bell above the door jingled as I stepped into Pages & Cozy, the little independent bookstore where I'd worked for the last two years. The familiar smell of paper and coffee usually calmed me. Today it barely registered. Mrs. Hargrove, the owner, took one look at my face and gasped.
"Frankie, honey! What happened to your lip?"
"Ran into a door," I lied quickly, forcing a small smile that hurt. "Clumsy night. I'm fine."
She fussed for a minute but let it go when customers came in. I buried myself in work shelving new arrivals, ringing up romances and thrillers, recommending Whispers of the Forgotten Crown to a couple of regulars. Every time I spoke, the split in my lip pulled and stung. Every time the door opened, my stomach tightened, half expecting those three men to walk in...
Around midday, during a quiet lull, I leaned against the counter and touched my lip gingerly. The police had done nothing. My dad was still MIA. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I didn't even want to think about how much that was in real life. Selling the townhouse wouldn't cover half of it. And the deadline loomed like a storm cloud.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Noah: Checking in. You good? I can bring lunch.
I started typing a reply saying maybe we should get some drinks after work hoping that help with the pain in my lip.
The bar was a cozy, dimly lit spot called The Rusty Anchor, tucked a couple blocks from the bookstore our usual after-work haunt when the day felt too heavy. Noah had insisted, practically dragging me there straight from my shift. "You need a drink, a distraction, and maybe a shot of something strong enough to make your dad's mess fade into the background for an hour," he'd declared, looping his arm through mine as we walked. My lip still throbbed with every word, but the swelling had gone down a bit thanks to the ice he'd forced on me earlier.
The place smelled like fried pickles, spilled beer, and that faint hint of wood polish. Low music hummed from the speakers, and a handful of locals clustered around the pool tables in the back. Noah ordered us two margaritas.
For the first ten minutes, it was perfect. Noah chattered about a disastrous date he'd had last weekend, making me laugh despite the pull on my split lip. Then his eyes lit up as a cute guy with a flannel shirt and an easy smile racked up balls at the pool table. "Okay, babe, duty calls. That one has 'harmless flirtation' written all over him. You good here for a sec?"
"Go," I said, waving him off with a forced smile. "I'll guard the drinks."
Noah squeezed my shoulder and sauntered over, already laughing at something the guy said. Within moments they were deep in conversation, cues in hand, Noah's purple-streaked hair flashing under the hanging lamp as he lined up a shot.
I sipped my drink, scrolling absently on my phone to avoid staring at the empty space across from me, when the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. That familiar feeling of being watched. I glanced up and there he was.
Leonard.
He stood at the bar, golden-blond hair catching the warm light, those striking blue-green eyes locked on me like I was the only person in the room. The tattoos on his hands stood out even from here as he set down a glass and started walking my way. My stomach did a stupid little flip. He looked just as composed as yesterday, but there was a sharper edge to his expression now.
He stopped beside my table, close enough that I caught the faint scent of something clean and spicy. His gaze dropped immediately to my mouth.
"What the hell happened to your lip?" His voice was low, that faint accent threading through the words like smoke. Before I could answer, he reached out gentle but firm and tilted my chin up with two fingers, turning my head slightly to get a better look under the bar lights. His touch was warm, the intricate ink on his hand stark against my skin. The ridiculous rainbow bandage I'd given him yesterday was gone, replaced by nothing but a faint scab.
"It's nothing," I mumbled, cheeks burning as I tried to pull back. His fingers stayed put for another second, assessing.
"Doesn't look like nothing." He flagged down a passing server with his free hand. "Ice and a clean napkin. Now." The server nodded quickly and hurried off something about Leonard's tone made people move fast. He finally released my chin but didn't step back, his stormy-electric eyes still fixed on my face. "Talk to me, Frankie."
I swallowed, the flutter in my chest mixing with the heavy dread that had been sitting there since last night. Noah was still laughing at the pool table, oblivious for the moment. "It's... complicated. Some guys showed up at my house last night. They're after my dad. He owes them a lot of money two hundred and fifty thousand. They said I have a week to pay or..." My voice cracked. I touched the split gingerly. "That was just a warning. Gun to my head, the whole dramatic crime movie bit. The police basically shrugged it off. Noah's the only one who's been any help."
Leonard's jaw tightened, a dangerous flicker crossing his face that made the tattoos on his hands suddenly look a lot more intimidating. The server returned with a glass of ice and a stack of napkins. He wrapped a few cubes in one and pressed it gently to my lip himself, holding it there.
His other hand rested on the table near mine, close but not touching. "Your dad dragged you into this shit?"
I nodded, the cold seeping through the napkin and numbing the sting. "He's gone. Again. I didn't even know the full extent until they broke in. I'm just... trying to figure out what to do. Sell the house? Win the lottery? Hide under my blanket forever?"
A muscle ticked in his jaw. Those blue-green eyes softened a fraction, but the protectiveness radiating off him felt almost tangible. "You're not handling this alone."
I let out a shaky laugh. "I barely know you. You're the guy who got jumped in an alley and let a girl with a unicorn first-aid kit play nurse."
Leonard's mouth curved into that slow, softening smile again, though it didn't quite reach his eyes this time. "And you're the girl who yelled at two thugs with nothing but a paperback and pure nerve. Seems like we're even." He glanced toward the pool table where Noah was still deep in conversation and flirtation, then back to me. "Give me the details. Names, descriptions whatever you've got. I might be able to... look into it."
The offer hung there, heavy with implication. Part of me the smart, romance-novel-reading part that knew trouble when it had tattoos and calm danger in its eyes wanted to say no. The rest of me, exhausted and terrified, wanted to lean into the steady warmth of his hand still holding the ice to my lip.
I hesitated, then whispered, "Why would you help me?"
His thumb brushed my jaw once, light as a secret. "Because you helped me first. And because I don't like seeing pretty girls with split lips because of someone else's mess."
Noah's laughter rang out from the pool table, but I couldn't look away from Leonard. The bar noise faded a little, the weight of the week ahead pressing harder than ever. Whatever Leonard was, whatever those tattoos really meant I had a feeling my ordinary little life had just collided with something far more complicated.
And for the first time since the pounding on my door last night, I didn't feel completely alone.
