Broken Reign: Enemies-To-Lovers Romance

He’s all by himself. He seems happy, and when he turns away, I see him waving at a man at the table directly next to the one he just stood from. It’s probably his dad.

His dad is surrounded by a bunch of other men, and they seem to be in deep conversation. The boy’s lips thin like he’s annoyed that his dad isn’t paying attention to him, but then he goes back to walking in my direction. I step away and start back to my table. As he puts a coin in the jukebox and flips through the music selection, I stop and watch him, wondering what type of song he will pick.

A song can tell you a lot about a person.

Still staring at him, I want to walk over and peek, but as I look from him to my parents, deciding what to do, I hear a strange sound. It sounds like a pop.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

A weird odor pours in around me, and then I hear screaming.

“Run!”

The place erupts into chaos. I look at where my parents are, but my mom is shaking her head, screaming at me to run.

Run? Where will I go? I move toward the bathroom, but there’s a loud explosion, and I can’t see anything. I can’t see anyone. The only person I see is that boy. He’s still standing by the jukebox, looking around.

He starts to where his dad was, and that’s when I see the man. A mean-looking man with a gun in his hands. It’s pointed at the boy. I dash toward him, pushing him out of the way, throwing my weight over his.

We both hit the ground with a thud.

The side of my body burns, but I don’t have time to worry about it. Instead, I’m looking down at the boy. He goes to speak, but I lift my head and place my fingers over his lips to silence him.

I think he said something about his dad, but now more men are shooting. It’s like a war. We need to move; I grab the older boy’s hand and use all my strength to pull him with me through the chaos. I don’t know where my parents are, but they would want me to hide, so that’s what I do. I lead us behind the jukebox to the small closet. Once inside, I close the door.

My heart pounds. There is barely any light. Only a small sliver that creeps in from the door that won’t fully shut. Hopefully, no one sees it.

My heart pounds as we wait.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

I can’t control the way my body shakes. A scream is lodged in my throat, but I don’t dare let it out. That’s when the boy turns to me. His hand reaches for mine.

“We’re going to be okay.”

I shake my head, back and forth.

He narrows his dark eyes. “Yes. We are. I promise we will be okay.”

“We are going to die . . .”

“We won’t. Because of you. You saved my life,” he whispers. “Why?”

I don’t answer his question. What can I say? I shrug, and pain cuts through my side. I wince at the movement. “Are you hurt?”

“I think so.”

He opens the door a tiny bit. More light penetrates the space but not enough that anyone can see in. It’s enough for me to see him, though. His large blue eyes stare back at me.

“We’re going to be okay,” he says, but I don’t believe him. My breath is shallow. My head spins.

“Take a deep breath.”

I can’t. I try, but I can’t. He reaches across the space and takes my hand in his. Then his finger draws a circle on the pulse of my left wrist.

“Look at me. Inhale,” I don’t know how old he is, but he’s so strong. “We are going to be okay, I promise. Now exhale.” His fingers continue the pattern as he prompts me to breathe.

As he whispers soft promises, I can’t help but become transfixed on the front of his shirt. On the design of a paper airplane.

“You’re the plane, and I’m the sky,” I say, my voice wobbling from blood loss. I don’t want him to see my pain, so I let my lips spread wide and give him a wink.

He smiles down at me, and for a moment, I forget all about the pain. “I’m the plane, and you’re the sky,” he repeats.

My head shakes back and forth. My eyes open and meet his gaze. His hand reaches out and swipes the tear away.

“You’re alive,” I whisper.

“I am.”

I don’t understand what’s happening. How this is happening. After I got out of the closet, my life changed. Everything I loved was gone. And I thought I had him, but then I—

“I was told you were dead.”

“Sometimes I wish I were,” he says as he flips my hand over and traces the little paper airplane tattoo I had placed on the same spot where he calmed me so many years ago. “You got this for me.”