Once I’m home, the shower runs red, then pink, then clear—a hemoglobin gradient that would make a beautiful watercolor if it wasn't human suffering diluted by city water. I stand under spray hot enough to denature proteins, letting it burn away everything except the memory of being called Angel by someone who admits to murder.
My bed stretches out like a diagnostic table—too big, too cold, too empty. My phone sits on the nightstand, and I absolutely don't check it seventeen times to see if he's texted again.
He hasn't.
My serotonin levels plummet accordingly.
I stare at the ceiling, counting acoustic tiles like they're symptoms of a disease I can't diagnose. Insomnia, loneliness, and whatever the DSM-5 calls 'attracted to danger'—probably something with a long Latin name and no cure.
Three facts remain clinically significant: The girl will survive with scarring that tells a story she'll never want to read. I'm going to text him again despite every neuron screaming in protest. And my vagina has already started composing thewedding invitations, because apparently, she has a death wish and excellent penmanship.
I close my eyes and see his words burned into my retinas like staring at the sun—dangerous, stupid, and absolutely going to happen again.
Prognosis: Terminal attraction.
Treatment plan: Pending.
Side effects: Everything.
Chapter two
Digital Hunter
Zane
Blood on my knuckles. Normal. Text from unknown number at 1:15 AM. Not normal.
I'm sitting in Thunder Road Custom Cycles. The guy who owed us twenty grand is down to nine fingers. Could've been eight. Showed mercy. Weakness. Emma would've—no. Stop.
The texts stopped seventeen minutes ago. Wrong number. Obvious.
Humor seemed to be her defense mechanism. Emma did that. Made jokes when scared. Right before the—stop.
Count. One. Two. Three. Four.
Ghost walks in without a knock. We have six years of brotherhood. "You good?"
He means functional.
"Yeah."
He leans over, and sees my phone. "Texting?"
"Wrong number."
He side-eyes me. "You responded?"
"Yeah."
He doesn't push, knowing when to stop. That’s why he's VP—and why he's the only one I tolerate at 1 AM. "Cartel's moving product through Fifth Street."
"Handle it."
"Already did."
Leaves. Back to the phone. Her words. Forty-seven of them in the last message. Counted twice. She uses words like shields. Like weapons. Like both.
I'm not an angel. Angels don't perform illegal medical procedures in vans that smell like blood and broken dreams.
