Chapter 2 Chapter 2
The hospital smelled like Antiseptic and suffering. I'd gotten used to it over the past five years—gotten used to a lot of things. A new name: Mia Nathan. A new social security number. A new life that didn't include anything about who I used to be.
"Nurse Nathan, bed four needs vitals." My supervisor Jenny barely looked at me when she said it, which was fine. I preferred when people didn't look too closely. People who looked closely sometimes saw things in my eyes that scared them.
"On it," I said, checking my watch. I had two hours left on my shift.
I'd become good at this job. Really good. I was patient with dying patients, quick with the ones who were in pain, and I never flinched when faced with blood or broken bodies. Maybe because I'd already seen the worst thing my own body could do.
Bed four was a middle-aged man with a stab wound. Gang violence from the sounds of it. The kind of thing that happened in this neighborhood at least once a week. I worked quickly and efficiently, checking his blood pressure, his heart rate, setting up his IV line.
"You're gentle," he muttered through the pain. "Most of the nurses... they're rough."
"You're already hurting," I said. "No point in causing more."
He watched me with tired eyes. "You've seen some things, haven't you? You've got that look. Like you've lived five lifetimes."
I smiled and changed the subject. "We're going to get you patched up. The doctor will be in soon."
But his words stayed with me. Five lifetimes. Five years I'd been running from one life, and every day it caught up with me a little bit more. The nightmares were less frequent now. Some weeks I could go four or five days without waking up screaming about blood and moon-light and my mother's eyes.
That was progress.
I clocked out at eleven and headed home. My apartment was small and clean, exactly what I wanted. No roommates, no complications, nothing that required me to let anyone into my life. I'd learned that the hard way with Elena, my friend. But even Elena didn't know the full truth about me. Nobody did.
The city streets were busy even at this hour. This neighborhood never really slept. I walked with my shoulders back, my eyes aware, my body ready. Another thing I'd learned—predators could sense fear. Even if they didn't know what you were, they sensed whether you'd be an easy mark.
I wasn't an easy mark.
My phone buzzed as I climbed the stairs to my apartment. A text from Elena: "Girl where are you? Jimmy's is live tonight and I need you to see this bartender I hired. He's hot AND competent. Come ouuuuut."
I smiled despite myself. Elena was the only person in this city who knew anything about my real self, and she only knew what I'd told her—that my parents died in an accident, that I'd grown up isolated and strange, that I needed a fresh start. She'd never asked too many questions, just pulled me into her life and made me her friend before I could say no.
I was changing into comfortable clothes when I heard the noise outside.
Gunshots. Fast and controlled. Not random gang violence—this was organized.
I went to my window and looked down at the street below. Three people were shooting at a single man with dark hair and a tailored black coat. He moved between the parked cars like water, moving with a precision that made my breath catch. He wasn't running. He was systematically taking down each shooter.
Then one of the shooters aimed at a homeless man sleeping in the alcove nearby.
Without thinking, I stood up. Without planning, my body moved.
I was downstairs and outside in seconds, that old animal strength flooding through my human form. I knocked the shooter's gun to the side just as he fired, the bullet going wild into the pavement. He spun on me in surprise.
Big mistake.
I moved like my predator form moved, fast and purposeful, and by the time he understood what was happening, his weapon was on the ground and he was nursing a broken arm.
The dark-haired man had gone very still.
When I looked up at him, our eyes met across the empty street, and something inside me recognized something inside him.
Something dark. Something that had survived things it shouldn't have survived.
Something broken that was trying very hard not to be.
"You shouldn't have done that," he said, walking toward me. His voice was cold, smooth as ice. "You just made yourself interesting to people who notice interesting things."
I should have run. Every instinct screamed at me to run.
Instead, I stood my ground.
"He was going to hurt someone innocent."
"So you played the hero." He stopped a few feet away, studying me with eyes so dark they were almost black. "Do you know who I am?"
"No."
"Good. Let's keep it that way." He turned to leave, then paused. "Go home. Lock your door. Don't do anything heroic again."
But the way he said it, the way he looked back at me one more time, I knew that was a lie.
He was going to be back.
And I wasn't sure if that was the best thing or the
worst thing that could happen to me.