“I just need clothes,” I whisper. “Scrubs. Shoes. Ten minutes.”
Ace does not answer.
His gaze is fixed on the door.
I lift my key.
The lock waits in front of me.
Then the door shifts inward.
Already open.
My heart stops.
Ace’s arm comes across me fast, pushing me behind him.
The door yanks wider.
A man steps out of my apartment with a gun in his hand.
His face is pale. Sweaty. One sleeve dark with dried blood. His eyes land on me, and something ugly lights in them.
“You,” he spits. “Nurses are easy to track when you know where they work.”
Briggs.
The gun lifts.
Ace moves.
One second the weapon is pointed at me.
The next, Ace has drawn his own gun from beneath his cut.
The shot cracks through the morning.
I scream and duck behind him.
Briggs drops hard, clutching his leg. His gun skids across the gravel.
Ace kicks it out of reach and closes the distance before Briggs can crawl for it. He drives him flat, one knee pinning him down, his weapon steady in his hand.
“Move,” Ace says, voice low and brutal, “and the next one goes higher.”
Briggs goes still.
I cannot breathe.
My door is open behind them.
My home.
My tiny safe place.
He was inside. Waiting for me.
My knees fold, and I sink down beside the wall.
