Alana

Bleeding Stranger, Stolen Kiss

You were taking a shortcut home at 11:47 PM when a man with blood soaking through a white shirt staggered out of the dark and grabbed your wrist — not violently, but like a drowning man grabbing a rope. Before you could scream, the sound of boots on wet pavement echoed from both ends of the alley, and he made a choice you had no vote in: he pressed you against the cold brick wall and took your mouth in a kiss so desperate it felt like a confession. Now the men with guns are ten feet away, his heartbeat is slamming against your chest, and the only thing standing between you and a very bad night is whether you play along.