Ariana POV
Rain had a way of cleansing everything streets, sins, and souls too heavy to carry their own weight.
Or maybe that's just what I told myself to keep going.
The clock above the nurses' station blinked 11:47 p.m.
Thirteen minutes to the end of my shift.
The clinic was small, tucked at the far end of Silverpine's valley, surrounded by forest on one side and forgotten roads on the other. A place for emergencies, stitches, and the occasional farmer with a sprained wrist. Nothing dramatic ever happened here. I liked that.
Quiet meant safe.
Quiet meant I didn't have to think about the past I'd been running from.
The storm outside howled against the windows, rattling them hard enough to make the lights flicker. I sighed, rubbing at the ache in my neck. My scrubs were wrinkled, my ponytail half falling out, and my coffee had gone cold hours ago. Just another night shift in a town that never had enough hands or hope.
Then the doors slammed open.
The sound was sharp and violent a crash of wind, thunder, and voices.
Men's voices. Rough. Urgent.
"Help! We need help in here!"
I turned, instinct taking over before my brain could catch up. Three men stumbled in, dragging a fourth between them. Blood streaked the tiles. The smell hit first iron and gunpowder, thick enough to choke.
"What happened?" I demanded, already reaching for gloves.
"Car accident," one of them said too quickly. His jacket was soaked, but the way he kept glancing at the door told me one thing he was lying.
"Lay him on bed two." I snapped into motion, flipping on the overhead lamp. "You grab the trauma kit. Now."
They obeyed, silent but tense. My fingers worked fast cutting fabric, stopping bleeding, finding the source. A bullet wound, high on the shoulder, just missing the artery. I'd seen worse in city hospitals before I came here. My hands didn't shake anymore.
The man on the table groaned, his skin ashen, his pulse fading.
"Hold pressure here." I pressed one of the men's hands to the wound and glanced at the others. "If you want him to live, stop hovering and start helping."
For a moment, they stared at me like I'd grown a second head. Then one moved. Then another. I guided them through it, every order sharp and steady.
Until the room fell quiet again.
Until I felt it the weight of someone watching me.
Not the injured man. Not his friends.
Something else.
I looked up.
And froze.
He stood in the doorway, framed by the storm. Tall, dark, composed in a way that didn't fit chaos. The kind of man who didn't need to shout to be obeyed. Water dripped from his black coat, glinting under the sterile lights. Eyes silver, unreal watched me like I was something he couldn't quite decide whether to devour or protect.
He didn't belong here. He didn't belong anywhere ordinary.
"Who are you?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
He stepped forward, unhurried. "The one paying your salary tonight."
The others bowed their heads. Even the injured one tried to sit up, grimacing.
So, the boss had arrived.
I didn't bow. "Then I suggest you let me work, unless you'd like your man dead."
Something flickered across his face surprise, maybe even amusement. He came closer, close enough that the air shifted. His scent hit next dark cedar and smoke, laced with something that made my stomach twist.
"You're not afraid," he murmured, like he was testing the words on his tongue.
"I don't have time to be afraid," I replied, stitching the wound closed. "Hold still."
"You know who I am?"
"No," I said without looking up. "And I don't care. He's losing blood."
He tilted his head, silver eyes gleaming with a mix of curiosity and hunger. "Everyone cares who I am."
"Then I must be an exception."
Silence stretched between us. The men around us shifted uneasily, as if waiting for punishment. But the man the boss just watched me.
And then, to everyone's shock, he laughed.
Low, dangerous, genuine.
The sound slid down my spine like velvet and knives.
When the last stitch was tied, I stepped back. "He'll live. Keep the wound clean. No heavy lifting for a week."
The boss studied me for a long moment, then pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and set it on the counter. "For the trouble."
I looked at the money but didn't touch it. "You can take it back. I don't get paid to break laws."
He smiled slow, dangerous. "You just did."
Then he turned, coat swirling behind him, and walked out into the rain.
The men followed, leaving the smell of blood and something darker behind. I stood there for a long moment, heart pounding harder than it should.
I told myself it was the adrenaline.
It wasn't.
It was him.
I thought that was the end of it.
But three nights later, I started feeling it.
The sense of being watched.
At first, I told myself it was nothing. I was overtired. My mind was playing tricks. But the feeling didn't stop—it deepened. Every time I walked home through the narrow alley behind the clinic, the hairs on my neck rose. The scent of rain and cedar lingered in the air, faint but there.
Once, I even caught a shadow at the edge of the streetlights. Tall. Still. Watching.
I told myself not to look back.
But I did.
And when I did, he was gone.
By the end of the week, I was almost convincing myself I'd imagined him until the night I came home to find my apartment door unlocked.
Every muscle in my body went cold.
I stepped inside slowly, heart hammering. The lights were off, but I could feel the presence before I saw it. My fingers brushed the handle of the scalpel I kept in my bag old habits from living alone.
Then his voice came from the shadows.
"You should lock your door better, nurse."
I froze. The same voice. Smooth, deep, commanding.
"Or were you expecting me?"
My pulse roared in my ears. "You're trespassing."
A light flicked on.
And there he was leaning against the wall like he owned the place. The same black coat. The same impossible eyes.
"I wanted to say thank you," he said softly. "For saving my man."
"Breaking into my home is a strange way to say it."
He smiled faintly. "You left me no other option. You disappear after work. No friends. No family. You're hard to find."
My breath caught. "You were looking for me?"
"I was watching you."
The words shouldn't have sounded as intimate as they did. But the way he said them—low, deliberate—made heat coil low in my stomach despite every rational protest in my brain.
"I don't need your attention," I snapped, trying to mask the tremor in my voice. "Or your gratitude. Get out."
He didn't move. "You're not afraid of me, are you?"
"I should be."
"But you're not."
His smile deepened, slow and knowing.
Then he took a step forward. And another.
The air between us thickened, electric. His gaze swept over my face, down my neck, lingering too long before finding my eyes again.
"Tell me your name," he murmured.
I hesitated. "Ariana."
"Ariana," he repeated, tasting it like a secret. "I'm Lucien."
I didn't realize I was backing up until I hit the wall.
Lucien stopped inches away. His presence was overwhelming heat, danger, power.
He reached out slowly, brushing a damp strand of hair from my cheek.
I should've slapped his hand away. I didn't.
His touch was light, almost reverent. "You fixed a man with a gun to your head. You didn't even flinch."
"I've seen worse," I whispered.
"I doubt that."
For a moment, neither of us moved. The tension between us crackled, wrong and irresistible. My heart pounded. My body betrayed me drawn toward the very danger I swore to avoid.
Then, from behind him, the door creaked open.
Another man stood there.
Identical face. Same silver eyes. Same cruel beauty.
But colder.
Sharper.
Lucien turned slightly. "Lysander," he said, his tone edged with warning.
The newcomer's gaze swept over me, lingering. His voice was silk over ice.
"So this is her."
"Not now," Lucien growled.
Lysander smirked. "You can't hide her from me, brother. You feel it too."
My stomach twisted. "What is this? Who"
But before I could finish, both men looked at me with something feral, something ancient burning behind their eyes.
And for the first time, I felt it the pulse, the pull.
A connection deep and wild, thrumming beneath my skin.
Whatever they were, whatever I had stepped into it was already too late.