"… I have to go," I say, and this time I really do.
"I know."
"This isn't over."
"It's barely started."
He reaches past me, opens the van door. Professional. Respectful. Like he didn't just set every nerve ending in my body on fire without actually touching me.
"Be safe," he says, loud enough for Torch to hear.
"Always am," I lie, loud enough for everyone to believe it.
I drive away, watching him in my rearview mirror, standing there like a prophecy of destruction I'm racing toward instead of away from.
My left ovary has composed an entire opera about his hands.
My rational brain has filed for early retirement.
And I'm driving toward a multi-vehicle catastrophe while being the protagonist of my own.
Chapter twenty
First Kiss Claiming
Zane
Five weeks of foreplay exploded the moment we touched.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Story of my fucking life when it comes to her.
The warehouse district emergency turned into a bloodbath. Three cars, two motorcycles, one truck, and enough carnage to qualify as a mass casualty event. I arrived ten minutes after her—not because I was following, but because Ghost got the call about Iron Talons members being involved.
She's there in the middle of absolute chaos, triaging with the efficiency of someone who's done this too many times. Covered in blood that's not hers, shouting orders at EMTs who clearlyrespect her enough to listen, completely in her element in the worst possible way.
Two hours of this. Two hours of her racing between bodies, making split-second decisions about who might live and who's already gone. I watch her lose the kid—eighteen, maybe nineteen, wearing prospect patches. She works on him for twenty minutes, compressions perfect, counting steadily, but his chest stays still. When she finally calls it, checks her phone for the time, something in her shoulders breaks just a little.
Another ghost to carry. She closes his eyes gently, like he matters, then moves to the next victim without pause.
By the time the scene clears, she's exhausted in that bone-deep way that comes from wrestling death and losing. She's sitting in her Mobile Mercy Unit, back doors open, head in her hands. Blood stains her scrub sleeves, exhaustion in every line of her body. Everyone else is gone—transported, fled, or beyond help.
"You did everything you could," I say, approaching carefully.
She looks up. "You followed me."
"My brothers were here."
"Your brothers are always where the blood is."
"So are you."
"I clean it up. You cause it."
"Not today."
"No," she agrees. "Not today."
I step closer. She doesn't move away. "Can I—"
