possess her entirely

Sherry had been confined in one of the rooms of the luxurious yet coldly ominous hotel, trapped under the watchful eyes of the mafia's henchmen. Tonight, she made her escape. With the bed sheets tied securely, she slid down from the fourth-story window, her hands gripping the fabric tightly as her legs dangled perilously in the air. The cold breeze of the midnight city whistled in her ears, but she fought through the nerves and the pain, inching closer to the alley below.

Her feet, shackled by the heavy metal chains that the Dallion's men had bound her with, made each movement more painful than the last. She gritted her teeth, pushing through the agony, knowing that freedom was just a few feet away. Shery’s heartbeat thundered in her chest, the chains clinking as her feet barely scraped the cold brick wall on the way down.

Hitting the damp concrete with a soft thud, she took a moment to breathe. Her breath was heavy, her legs nearly giving out from the strain. But she didn’t have time to rest. Sherry knew who waited inside. The infamous Don Dallion Cross– one of the most feared mafia bosses in the city. The man who had bought her freedom with blood, but now wanted to possess her entirely.

Her bare feet slapped against the slick asphalt as she moved through the alley, her legs restricted by the shackles that bit into her skin. She didn’t dare look back. The dark alley was her only hope of disappearing into the shadowed corners of the city, where she prayed she wouldn’t be found. The mafia had eyes everywhere, and she had to be smarter than them tonight.

The distant growl of engines rumbled through the streets. Sherry stuck to the darkest corners, staying away from the main roads where the blacked-out SUVs of the Dallion's men cruised regularly. They were always watching. Always hunting. But tonight, luck was on her side. The chaos back in the hotel had distracted Dallion's men. She didn't know who the woman who had died in that room, but it didn’t matter – that death had bought her time. Time she was determined not to waste.

The alley stank of rotting garbage and the sour scent of urine, but Sherry barely noticed. Her senses were overwhelmed by the ticking clock in her mind. Every step brought her closer to the City's outskirts, where the mafia's grip wasn't as tight. But she couldn’t shake the feeling of being hunted. The chains clinked with every hesitant step, a loud reminder of her captivity, and her small, desperate breaths echoed in the silence.

The city's neon lights barely penetrated the thick mist of the alley, the fog rolling in to mask her presence. But it also made her uneasy. Anything could be hiding in the mist, anyone could be watching her. Her legs screamed in agony as she pushed herself forward, but the freedom she sought was so close, she could taste it.

The sky rumbled ominously, the heavy clouds above threatening a storm. Sherry's feet were bleeding now, the shackles digging into her skin as she stumbled forward. She hadn't had shoes since day they took her from her old life, brought into the hellish world of debt and servitude. She had to keep moving.

A sudden noise made her freeze. The sound of heavy footsteps and the unmistakable clopping of boots hit the wet pavement. Her heart raced, terror seizing her as she ducked behind a large dumpster, trying to stifle her ragged breaths. The footsteps grew closer, a shadowy figure coming into view.

It wasn’t Dallion, but it was someone she didn’t recognize – a man with dirty blonde hair, his suit immaculate despite the grime of the alley. The expression on his face was one of fierce determination, as if he were hunting a wild animal. And he was. He was looking for her.

Sherry shrank further into the shadows, pulling herself tightly against the cold metal of the dumpster. She held her breath, praying that he wouldn’t see her. The man's eyes scanned the alley like a predator seeking its prey, his sharp features illuminated by the flickering streetlights.

After what felt like an eternity, the man turned and walked away, his polished shoes clicking against the pavement. Sherry exhaled shakily, her hands trembling as she struggled to her feet. She knew she didn’t have enough time. The storm above finally broke, and rain poured from the sky, drenching her within seconds. The icy water pelted down, soaking her hair and clothes as she limped through the streets, using the rain to wash away the blood and grime.

The city streets seemed to stretch forever, but in the distance, she saw it – the warm glow of a small, dingy motel. It wasn’t much, but it was shelter. Somewhere to hide until she could figure out her next move.

She stumbled inside, dripping wet, her dress clinging to her skin as she approached the front desk. An old man sat behind it, his thick glasses perched on his nose as he rifled through yellowed papers. He barely glanced up as she entered, though her appearance certainly caught his eye.

"Room?" she asked, her voice a mere whisper, hoarse from the cold.

The old man grunted, eyeing her up and down before asking, "You got money? We don't do charity here."

Sherry pulled out the silver coin she had stolen from the Dallion's coat pocket, her hand trembling as she placed it on the counter. The old man snatched it up, pocketing it without another word. He gestured to the stairwell. “Second floor. Third door on the left.”

She nodded, dragging herself up the stairs, her body exhausted from the night’s escape. Once inside the small, grimy room, she locked the door behind her. The thin blanket on the bed did little to warm her, but she wrapped it around herself, shivering uncontrollably. Sleep came fitfully, her mind still running, unable to rest.

Morning came with soft knocks at her door, and Sherry's heart jumped into her throat. She silently approached the door, pressing her ear against the cold wood.

“She’s not here,” a woman’s voice whispered from the other side.

A sigh of relief escaped Sherry's lips. They weren't looking for her. Not yet. But it wouldn’t be long before the Dallion found out where she was.

She had to move. Now.

Sherry slipped out of the room quietly, sneaking down the stairs and out into the dimly lit streets. The morning fog was thick, but it provided her with cover. She had to find a blacksmith. Someone who could get these shackles off before Dallion's men found her again.

As she limped down the street, her legs still sore from the chains, her body tensed. There, standing casually by the mouth of the alley, was Dallion Cross His suit was pristine, a smirk playing on his lips as he casually wiped the red stain of the passion he'd just ate from his mouth with the back of his hand. Beside him lay the old man from the motel, his lifeless body slumped against the wall, the telltale puncture wounds on his neck.

“Did you have a good rest, little mouse?” Dallion asked, his voice a deadly whisper, dripping with cruel amusement.

Sherry’s eyes widened in horror. He had found her. There was no escaping him.

And so she ran. Again. Desperation coursing through her veins.

But deep down, she knew – Dallion Cross always caught his prey.