Out of everyone in this world, you’re the only one who ever had the right to claim me.
“Hold on, Drew,” he whispered.“I’m coming, and I am staking my claim.”
****
The first thing Drewregistered was the antiseptic sting of disinfectant.The second was pain—sharp, constant, living under his skin.He knew hospital beds by feel, by the stiff sheets and the weight of IV lines.He’d woken up in too many not to recognize the signs.
His eyes opened to blinding white light.The steady beep of a monitor kept time with the throbbing in his head.His tongue felt like sandpaper, and the chemical tang in his mouth reminded him he’d been drugged—again.
A man in scrubs leaned over him.“Sir?You’re at Mercy General.You’ve been through quite a bit.We’re just keeping you stable for now.Can you tell me your name?”
Drew blinked slowly, scanning the room.Curtains drawn.Single bed.Only one door.His instincts hummed—wrong, all of it.Too quiet.Too still.
The doctor continued, oblivious.“You have a mild concussion, two cracked ribs, dislocated thumb—already set—and a few bruises that’ll make you colorful for a while.Lucky you weren’t killed.”
“Yeah,” Drew rasped.“Lucky me.”He kept his tone flat, but his mind was racing.The Bratya were gone, they wouldn’t be here, but the Directorate would be.He’d barely escaped the van.Whoever wanted him would make sure he didn’t wake up a second time.
He glanced toward the door again, then at the doctor.That was when the itch started—the one he’d learned never to ignore.Something off.Something wrong.
His stomach dropped.The danger wasn’t outside the room.
It was behind the doctor.
“Doc—” he started, but the word barely left his mouth before the scalpel flashed.The blade slashed clean across the man’s throat, and arterial spray painted Drew’s face and the white sheets in red.
The doctor fell soundlessly, his eyes wide with shock.Drew didn’t flinch.He’d seen worse.Felt worse.He only stared at the killer who stepped from behind him.
The man was tall, lean, surgical in movement.His gloves were black, his smile practiced.“Hello, Wraith.”
Drew’s jaw tightened.“You’ve got me at a distinct disadvantage.Mind telling me who you are before I develop PTSD from secondhand trauma?”
The man’s grin didn’t reach his eyes.“Just another ghost, Wraith.Not in your league, but this kill?It’ll make me a fucking legend.”
“Dreaming big,” Drew muttered, shifting slightly under the covers.Every muscle protested, but he was already calculating distances—door, window, IV stand, the tray table beside him.“You sure you’re ready for legend status?You’ve got blood on your shoes already.Bad omen.”
The killer tilted his head.“You always talk this much?”
Drew nodded.“Only when I’m stalling.”
He chuckled.“Doesn’t matter what you’re thinking of doing, Wraith.I know all your tricks.Every counter, every tell.Any move you make—I’ll see it before you do.We have had the same training, you and I.”
Drew forced a dry smile.“So what, you’re psychic now?”
“Close enough.Let’s just say I’ve studied your work.Pattern recognition.Makes this easy.”
Drew’s pulse steadied.The calm before the storm.“Then tell me, genius—how’s it end?”
The man raised the knife.“With you dead, and me ascended to the realms of gods.”
For a heartbeat, Drew considered letting him.He was tired—bone deep, soul deep.He’d spent the last four and a half years fighting ghosts, dismantling monsters, carrying the weight of every sin he couldn’t atone for.Maybe this was the reckoning he’d been running from.
He thought of Kael.
The way Kael had looked at him in the warehouse—equal parts fury and heartbreak.The way his name had sounded in that low, rough voice.
Could he leave him again?The first time had almost killed them both.The second time would finish the job.
He closed his eyes, hearing Kael’s voice in his head, sharp and commanding—You don’t quit, Wraith.Not now.Not ever.
