CHAPTER 442: ROSE WITH THORNS (3)

"You think you’re better than me?" the man spat, towering over her with wild eyes. "Coming here dressed like that, acting all pure—you’re just like the rest."

Rose’s lip trembled as her hand touched her cheek. Her vision blurred. For a second, her thoughts spiraled. She didn’t deserve this. No one did.

The streetlamp flickered again—once, twice—casting strange shadows on the wall behind her. Her breath was uneven, her mind screaming, Someone... please... anyone...

Her fingers curled into fists on the cold ground.

Would no one come?

Would no one see?

Was this really happening?

She tried to crawl back, her heels scraping against the concrete as the man stepped closer, his silhouette blocking the alley’s only exit. He reached for her again—

"Don’t touch me!" she sobbed, her voice finally cracking, raw and full of fear.

But he didn’t stop.

His hand reached out again—rough, forceful, full of intent.

And something inside Rose snapped.

She was terrified. Her knees were weak, her cheek burned, her heart was shaking inside her chest like a broken drum—but she refused. She refused to be a victim.

"No!" she screamed, and before he could grab her again, she shoved him with both hands as hard as she could.

He stumbled back a little—not much but enough to loosen his grip. She used that single second and ran.

Her heels scraped the ground as she turned and bolted toward the alley’s entrance. The cold air slapped her face, mixing with the hot burn of fear and shame and raw adrenaline. She could hear him cursing behind her, heavy footsteps chasing her. The sound of his rage echoed through the walls.

She didn’t stop.

Her dress caught on something—ripped but she kept running.

Her lungs ached. Her legs screamed.

But she didn’t stop.

She didn’t care.

But Rose didn’t turn to check.

And that was her mistake.

Just as she reached the edge of the road, a hand clamped around her wrist again—strong, violent, pulling her back like a claw from the shadows.

"No—!" she gasped, twisting her body in panic, but the man was faster this time. He yanked her hard and dragged her back into the darkness of the alley. Her heels scraped against the pavement, her breath coming out in ragged gasps. "Let me go!" she screamed, her voice cracking from fear, but the music from the bar was too loud, the world too far away. No one was coming.

Her back hit the wall with a dull thud, and pain shot up her spine. The man’s eyes were wild, bloodshot. His face twisted with rage and something darker.

"You’re making a scene," he hissed, slapping her again.

Rose’s cheek stung, but her soul hurt even more. She tried to push him away with all her strength, her hands trembling, her knees weak. But he was so much stronger. He shoved her again, pressing her back against the cold brick, one hand gripping her shoulder while the other clawed at the strap of her dress.

"No—please stop—" she sobbed, trying to squirm free. She was shaking uncontrollably now, her heart pounding against her chest like it was trying to escape for her.

This can’t be happening. Not to her.

Her mind went blank with terror.

She kicked blindly, her heel hitting something—maybe his leg but he just growled in frustration and gripped her wrist harder.

She felt like she was suffocating.

Tears filled her eyes.

Her vision blurred.

"Let her go," a voice said—low, rich, and tinged with lazy annoyance, like someone being forced to deal with a minor inconvenience. Rose flinched, her heart still racing from the struggle, her breath shaky as she turned her head toward the sound.

A man stood a few feet away in the dim alley, barely visible beneath the flickering streetlamp. He leaned casually against the wall, one hand in his pocket, the other adjusting the cuff of his dark coat as if he had all the time in the world. His eyes were the most striking thing—warm gold, sharp and glowing slightly in the dark like a predator’s. His long black hair was loosely tied back, some strands falling around his face, and his entire look screamed dangerous elegance.

The man didn’t rush. He didn’t even raise his voice. But the tension shifted in the air. Heavy. Cold.

The attacker glanced back. "Who the hell are you—"

He didn’t get to finish.

In one second, the man was leaning on the wall. In the next, he was standing behind the attacker, his hand wrapped lazily around the man’s wrist.

"Humans are so impatient," he muttered. "Dragging women around like trash bags."

With a flick—just a flick—the man was thrown across the alley like a ragdoll, crashing into the trash bins. The attacker groaned, unable to move.

Rose’s knees buckled, and she stumbled back, her shoulder brushing the wall for support. Her eyes were wide with disbelief.

The golden-eyed stranger turned his head and looked at her for the first time. Really looked at her.

His gaze lingered, scanning her face, her messy hair, her frightened eyes. But his expression wasn’t soft. If anything, it was mildly annoyed like she’d caused him extra work tonight.

"Tch," he muttered. "What kind of pheasant walks into a wolf’s den in heels this late at night?"

Rose blinked. "Excuse me?" she whispered, confused and breathless.

He tilted his head, golden eyes gleaming with quiet arrogance. "Next time, don’t wander alone," he said. "Some creatures bite harder than others."

He turned his back on her then, walking a few steps before pausing.

"Are you just going to stand there like a statue?" he asked without turning his head. "I’m not going to carry you."

Rose blinked again, unsure whether to thank him or smack him. "I didn’t ask you to save me," she muttered.

His lips curled into a slow smirk as he finally looked over his shoulder.

"No," he said. "You didn’t. But I was bored."

And just like that, he vanished into the night.

Rose stood there, heart pounding, her hand still trembling.

Who was that?