He was running from assassins when he saw her. One look—and he took her with him.
She was sure he killed her father. She fought him, bit him, ran three times. He caught her three times. But every time she was in danger, he was the one standing in front.
She hated him. She fell anyway.
Then the truth came out. He didn’t kill her father. The real killer had been sitting at her family’s dinner table, smiling, calling her “niece.”
She turned to him. He wiped the blood off her face and asked:
“Still running?”
