Outlawed Desires: Beyond the Chains

The crowd began to disperse, some still murmuring among themselves, others going about their day as if nothing had happened. As if two innocent boys hadn't just been wasted by them.

I let out a slow, careful breath. It's over. At least for now.

I turned to leave, but I could feel him. Malcolm.

He hadn't moved from his place near the platform, his jaw set, his stance unwavering. His hands were clasped loosely behind his back. He looked calm—too calm.

But his gaze, it wasn't on the fading crowd. It wasn't on the dying embers of Kenny and Cheney's bodies. It was on me.

A shiver ran down my spine, not from the morning chill but from the unwavering presence of his stare.

Why is he still watching me?

I forced myself to keep walking, blending into the departing mass of people. Step after step, I focused on the worn cobblestones beneath my feet, forcing myself to ignore the hushed voices around me. Some whispered about the boys, their words laced with twisted justification, as if Kenny and Cheney had deserved such a cruel fate.

My stomach churned at their heartlessness.

But Malcolm's gaze—his quiet, assessing stare—was what I couldn't shake. It clung to me, like a phantom weight pressing against my shoulders, heavy and suffocating.

I kept my pace steady, measured. Not too fast, not too slow. Nothing to make me stand out.

But as I turned onto a quieter street, away from the dispersing crowd, the feeling didn't fade. Someone was behind me.

The footsteps were too controlled, too steady, too deliberate to belong to a random passerby. I willed myself to glance back, and it was him.

My pulse pounded against my ribs, a frantic rhythm I couldn't control. Was this it? Had he decided to deal with me himself?

I turned a corner, then another, ducking into a narrow alley, trying to lose him. My breath came in shallow gasps, my heart hammering in my chest.

His footsteps didn't stop. Slow. Unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world.

I swallowed hard, pressing myself against the cold stone wall. The alley was tight, lined with crates and broken barrels, there was nowhere else to go. It was a dead end.

Malcolm stepped into view, his figure blocking the alley's entrance. He stood still for a moment, his expression unreadable as ever, his grey-blue eyes cool beneath the morning sunlight.

For a second, neither of us spoke. Then he started moving toward me, his steps smooth and measured. I tensed, my breathing shallow. What now?

I wanted to look anywhere but his face, so I focused on his clothes. He wore a fitted black coat, the kind lined with thick wool, expensive and custom-made.

The cuffs were tailored just right, the buttons were polished, the fabric smooth, not a wrinkle in sight. My eyes dropped lower. His boots, dark leather, polished to a sheen, barely made a sound against the uneven ground.

Then he stopped. Right in front of me.

I keep my gaze at his boots afraid to look up, my stomach twisting. Don't look at him. Don't react.

With terrifying ease, he said, "You looked away."

A lump formed in my throat. No. He wouldn't have followed me just for that. Right?

I forced myself to meet his gaze, even though it felt like a rope tightening around my throat. "So did you."

Malcolm tilted his head slightly, his sharp features betraying nothing—until a flicker of something passed through his eyes. Amusement? Annoyance? I couldn't tell.

Then, he took another step closer. I tensed up. Another step. Too close—too close.

I pressed my back against the wall as he exhaled softly, casting a glance at the empty street behind him before leaning in slightly. Lowering his voice, he murmured, "You shouldn't let people see what you feel."

Was that supposed the be a warning or a threat?

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to stay even. "I didn't."

Something flickered across his expression—so brief I almost doubted I saw it. Then it was gone. He leaned in further, the space between us shrinking, and I clenched my fists at my sides, refusing to break eye contact.

"Yes, you did." His breath ghosted against my lips, the warmth of it sending an involuntary shudder down my spine. My pulse hammered, my resolve wavering for just a moment.

He studied me for another long beat, his gaze unreadable, before finally stepping back. The distance he put between us wasn't much, but it was enough for me to breathe again.

He adjusted the cuff of his coat with calm, deliberate movements. "Don't ever do that again." His tone was firm, yet there was something almost hesitant about it—like a trace of worry he didn't quite manage to hide. And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing in the alley, my pulse still racing.

I watched his back disappear into the street, my mind spinning. What was that all about? Did Malcolm Hayes, the mayor's son, really follow me just to warn me? And was there actually a trace of worry in his voice?

I exhaled shakily. Maybe I was imagining it. Either way, at least he hadn't turned me in. Pressing a hand to my chest, I tried to steady my erratic heartbeat.

Whatever game Malcolm was playing, I wasn't about to stick around to figure it out. I had bigger problems—I needed to get to work before I lose my job.

---

The scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries filled the air as I stepped into The Gilded Spoon. The café was already bustling, sunlight streaming through the grand windows, glinting off the polished gold trim and pristine white marble ccounters

The chatter of well-dressed patrons blended with the soft clinking of fine china, a stark contrast to the brutal reality I had witnessed just hours ago.

"Morning, Asher!" a familiar voice called out.

I turned to see Liam, one of my coworkers, grinning as he wiped his hands on his apron. He was always in a good mood, always eager to chat, like the world was simple and right.

I forced a smile, barely managing a nod in return. Cheerful pleasantries were the last thing I had the energy for.

I headed straight for the changing room, eager to put a barrier between myself and the polished, artificial perfection of this place. But Liam followed, talking like he hadn't noticed how stiff my posture was.

"I heard what happened in your area this morning," he said, his voice dropping slightly, though there was no real sadness in it. Just curiosity. "I couldn't believe Cheney and Kenny were practicing such an abominable act."

I swallowed hard, forcing my hands to stay steady as I opened my locker. My uniform hung inside, crisp and pressed.

I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to stay still. Don't lash out. Don't react. The words repeated in my head like a warning, tightening around my restraint.

My throat felt dry. I didn't trust myself to speak without giving something away. Just stay calm.

"Uhm," I muttered, barely managing the sound. It was weak, uncertain—but hopefully enough to end the conversation.

It wasn't.

Liam leaned against the lockers, shaking his head. "I hope you weren't friendly with them. I'm glad they were caught. People like that don't deserve to breathe the same air as us."

Something in me snapped.

I tugged on my uniform jacket, shoving past him with more force than necessary. My voice came out low and sharp. "We're here to work, not to decide who deserves to live or die."

I didn't wait for his response.

My pulse pounded in my ears as I walked away, each step heavier than the last.