Chapter 133
Raven
The first thing I noticed was the color.
Not the sterile white of an operating theater or the industrial gray of a safe house. Pastel blue. The walls were painted a soft, almost cheerful shade of sky blue, with little cloud decals scattered across the ceiling like someone actually gave a damn about patient morale.
What the hell?
I blinked against the afternoon light filtering through gauzy curtains—actual curtains, not reinforced blinds—and took stock of my situation. Hospital gown, check. IV drip in my left arm, check. Bandages wrapped around my torso in what felt like professional, careful layers.
My ribs still hurt. But it was a manageable pain, the kind that came with proper medical attention rather than gritting your teeth while some underground doctor stitched you up with whiskey as anesthesia.
This is... nice.
The thought caught me off guard. In my previous life, hospitals were places to avoid. Too many questions, too many records, too many ways for enemies to find you when you were vulnerable. I'd treated injuries in abandoned warehouses, safe houses with questionable sanitation, once even in the cargo hold of a shipping container crossing the Atlantic.
Never with pastel walls and clouds on the ceiling.
I shifted slightly, testing my range of motion. Someone had adjusted my pillow to the perfect angle—not too high, not too flat. The blanket was tucked in with military precision but somehow still felt... caring.
A smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it.
Who the hell am I becoming?
"Master! You're awake!"
My head snapped to the left—a movement I immediately regretted as my ribs protested—and found Miles sitting up in the hospital bed next to mine. His right leg was wrapped in enough bandages to mummify a small pharaoh.
"Your leg," I said, my voice rougher than I'd expected. "How bad is it?"
Miles grinned—grinned—like getting stabbed by a psychotic cheerleader was just another Tuesday. "Honestly? I was kind of out of it during the treatment, but I'm already feeling great! Watch this!"
Before I could stop him, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, hopping on his good leg toward me with the enthusiasm of a puppy who hadn't learned that stairs existed.
He plopped down on the edge of my bed, slightly out of breath but grinning like an idiot.
"See? Good as new!"
I glanced at his bandaged left leg, then at his right leg doing all the work. "Well, at least your right leg got stronger."
"Right?" He beamed, completely missing my sarcasm. "It's like a superpower!"
"Sure. Next time I'll make sure to injure both legs. For balance."
The smile froze on his face. "Master, please don't."
"Noted."
For a moment, we sat in comfortable silence. Then Miles leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"So... who's the guy?"
Oh no.
"What guy?" I kept my expression neutral, a skill honed by years of lying to people who would kill me if they detected deception.
Miles wasn't buying it. "The ridiculously handsome one who brought us here. The one who looked at me like I'd personally offended his ancestors when he saw me talking to you."
"Nash." The name came out more defensive than I'd intended. "He's... a neighbor."
"A neighbor." Miles's eyebrow climbed toward his hairline. "Master, I may be young, but I'm not blind. That man sat outside your operating room for over an hour. I couldn't go in, but I saw him pacing the hallway like a caged tiger. When he went in, he looked like someone had died. When he came out..."
"When he came out?" I prompted, hating how much I wanted to know.
"He looked like someone had been brought back from the dead." Miles's expression softened. "I didn't know you had friends like that, Master. Someone so... warm. Someone who actually cares."
Warm.
That was the only word for the strange sensation spreading through my chest. Not the heat of adrenaline or the burn of injury. Something gentler. More dangerous.
"Friends?" I forced a laugh. "Miles, that 'warm friend' of mine runs an international private military company that could level a small country."
"Oh." He blinked. "So like... a really successful businessman?"
Sure. Let's go with that.
"Something like that," I muttered.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside—measured, deliberate, instantly recognizable. My pulse quickened, and I silently cursed my traitorous cardiovascular system.
The door opened.
Nash entered like he owned the place—which, given his resources, he probably did—and his eyes immediately locked onto Miles sitting on my bed.
The temperature in the room dropped fifteen degrees.
"Oh shit," Miles whispered, pressing closer to me. "Master, why is your friend looking at me like I'm one of those guys who tried to kill you?"
I bit back a smile. "Because that's his resting face."
"That is not a resting face. That's a 'I'm deciding which body part to remove first' face."
Nash crossed the room in three strides, each step radiating barely controlled menace. When he stopped in front of us, Miles actually squeaked.
"This," Nash said, his voice deceptively calm, "is how you treat your master? The woman who risked her life to save yours?"
Miles's mouth opened and closed like a landed fish.
"She's barely conscious," Nash continued, "still recovering from life-threatening injuries, and you have her sitting up? Straining her wounds?"
"I—she was already sitting up when I—I didn't mean—"
"Nash." I put enough steel in my voice to cut through his intimidation routine. "This is my student. Stop terrorizing him."
Nash's gaze shifted to me, and his expression softened infinitesimally. "He shouldn't be bothering you while you recover."
"He's not bothering me."
"Master?" Miles turned to me, his eyes wide. "Should I... maybe go back to my bed now?"
"Actually," Nash said before I could respond, "I've arranged a private room for you. Down the hall. With better equipment for your leg injury."
"Whoa, hey." I tried to sit up straighter, immediately regretted it as pain lanced through my ribs. "You can't just kick out my student—"
"Until you're fully recovered," Nash interrupted, his hand already on my shoulder, gently but firmly pressing me back against the pillows, "I don't care if it's your parents, your siblings, or the President of the United States. No one disrupts your rest."
His fingers adjusted my blanket with surprising care, smoothing out wrinkles I hadn't even noticed. The gesture was so domestic, so utterly at odds with everything I knew about him, that I temporarily forgot how to speak.
Miles caught my eye and mouthed, He's terrifying.
I mouthed back, Welcome to my life.
After Miles limped-hopped out of the room—under Nash's watchful glare—silence settled like a heavy blanket.
Nash stood beside my bed, his hand still resting on my shoulder.
"You're very bossy," I said finally.
"You're very reckless."
"I had it under control."
"You were bleeding out in a forest."
"I've bled out in worse places."
His jaw tightened. For a long moment, he just looked at me, and I watched emotions flicker across his face too quickly to identify. Anger. Fear. Something that looked dangerously close to...
No. Don't go there.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice dropping to something softer.
"Like I got stabbed by a psychotic cheerleader and then fought a wolf pack."
"So, Tuesday?"
Despite everything, I laughed. It hurt like hell, but I laughed. "Pretty much."
His hand moved from my shoulder to adjust my pillow, his movements careful, almost reverent. I should tell him to stop. Should maintain professional distance. Should remember that he was the leader of Ares Legion and I was—
What am I now?
"Nash."
"Mm?"
"Maddie and Tyler." The names tasted like ash. "What happened to them?"