"Good." He started toward the other bikers, paused, looked back over his shoulder. The light caught his eyes, and for a moment I saw something there—gratitude, maybe, but also something warmer. "See you around, Kai."
Then he was gone, swallowed by shadows and the rumble of Harley engines.
The ride home was a blur of empty streets and spinning thoughts.
I moved on autopilot, muscle memory guiding me while my mind replayed every moment. The violence. The blood. The way his voice had sounded saying my name—like he was filing itaway somewhere important. The heat of his body against mine, solid and vital despite the wound.
Memorable isn't safe.
I should have been terrified. Should have been planning how to disappear, considering whether to talk to police. Instead, as I pulled into my apartment garage, I found myself thinking about grey eyes and scarred skin and a man who fought like death incarnate but told a stranger to ride safe.
I didn't know it yet—couldn't have known—but my life had just split into before and after.
Before: lonely shifts and empty apartments and a restored Kawasaki that was the closest thing I had to a relationship.
After: blood and leather and a man called Reaper who looked at me like I was something unexpected. Something worth remembering.
I fell asleep that night still smelling leather and copper, still feeling the phantom warmth of his skin under my fingers. In the morning, I'd go back to work, back to the ER, back to the routine I'd built to keep myself sane.
But some part of me was already waiting. For what, I couldn't say.
I'd find out soon enough.
2
MARKED TERRITORY
Three days since I'd played guardian angel to a bleeding biker. Three days of checking my mirrors, varying my routes, parking in different spots. Three days of jumping at shadows and dreaming about grey eyes and waking up with my heart pounding from nightmares I couldn't quite remember.
Memorable isn't safe.
His warning played on loop in my head as I walked through the hospital parking garage, morning sun slanting through the concrete gaps and painting stripes of gold across the oil-stained floor. My sneakers echoed in the emptiness. Somewhere above me, a car door slammed. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
So why couldn't I shake the feeling of being watched?
My Kawasaki waited in her usual spot on level three—I'd moved her from level two, one of a dozen small paranoid adjustments I'd made since that night. The violet underlights were off, the chrome gleaming dull in the fluorescent light. I reached for my helmet.
And heard it.
That distinctive Harley rumble, echoing through the structure like thunder rolling in. Growing closer. My hand foundthe tactical pen in my jacket pocket—Tyler's gift, from back when he still worried about me navigating the world alone.
The bike emerged from the shadows, and my breath caught.
Custom black Road King, chrome pipes throwing light like liquid mercury. But it was the rider that stopped me cold.
Axel.
He killed the engine twenty feet away, swinging off with a fluid grace that shouldn't have been possible for a man his size. I caught the slight stiffness when he straightened—still favoring those ribs. Black leather jacket over his Steel Phoenixes cut, dark jeans stretched over powerful thighs. Those grey eyes found mine immediately, like he'd known exactly where I'd be standing.
"You're jumpy." His voice carried that same controlled power I remembered. Thunder held in check. "Good. Means you're taking this seriously."
"How did you find me?"
"Wasn't hard. Male nurse at St. Mary's who rides a restored '78 Kawasaki?" He moved closer, each step deliberate, eating up the distance between us. "Violet highlights? Pretty memorable."
"Stalking is illegal."
His lips quirked—the first hint of anything other than intensity. "So is practicing medicine without a license in parking lots."
