Chapter 3 The Present #2
On air. On nothing. My lungs seize because they’re not there, until suddenly they are. My chest snaps into reality like someone slammed the door on a hurricane. Gravity grabs me all at once.
I hit the floor.
Hard.
Solid.
Painfully real.
“What the fuck?” I gasp, clawing at the scrub fabric like it’s the only thing keeping me here. It’s back—my body, the clothes, the unbearable weight of being alive.
Everything resets.
But that’s not the end of it.
Reality hiccups again, and I’m up on my feet, like the past three seconds rewound and spat me back out mid-movement.
And then, my knees buckle.
I collapse like deadweight, straight into Nathaniel.
There’s no grace to it. Just impact. My body hitting his, our limbs tangling, both of us crashing into a precarious stack of medical supplies.
Bottles clatter. Trays skitter across the floor.
Something hard and cold clips my temple.
A roll of gauze bounces off his face and lands somewhere behind us.
He grunts under me. One strained, breath-punched sound.
And I just… lie there.
Sprawled across him, chest heaving, muscles twitching like exposed wires. My skin feels scorched. My bones; if they’re even still bones, melted into something gelatinous and useless. I’m a raw nerve in a meat sack.
“Gods,” I whisper, my forehead pressed to the curve of his neck. “I think I died. Again.”
Nathaniel doesn’t move.
Not right away.
Then, quietly, he wraps one arm around my waist. His hand settles against my back, warm through the scrubs, holding me in place like I might flicker away again if he lets go.
And honestly? He might be right.
“I feel like… like someone microwaved me inside a bag of broken glass,” I mutter, burying my face in the curve of his neck.
There’s a beat. Then he exhales. Low. Ragged.
“Well,” he mutters into my hair, “they didn’t. They just turned you into an unclassified supernatural entity who blinks out of existence when it feels too much.”
A beat of silence.
Then, dryly from somewhere nearby, Talon adds, “Especially when horny.”
I go completely still.
Oh no.
He’s not wrong.
He’s not wrong.
The realization hits like a slap. I should shove myself off Nathaniel and punt Talon across the room just for saying it aloud.
But I don’t.
Because something shifts.
Nathaniel’s breath catches. Subtle, but unmistakable.
His hand tightens slightly on my lower back. His entire body stiffens beneath mine, drawn taut like a bowstring.
And then—
I shift, barely, and feel it.
The slow, unmistakable swell of him pressing hard against my hip.
Oh.
Oh.
Did that really turn him on?
The idea that I could come undone so completely I might disappear?
Apparently, yes.
Because he exhales again— sharp, shaky. His fingers twitch like they want to pull me closer, grip tighter. His cock throbs against my hip.
And gods help me, I want to move.
Just a little. Just enough to feel more.
But instead, I press my forehead harder into his chest and breathe him in.
Antiseptic. Citrus. Clean and sharp and so him.
Control slips through my fingers like water.
“Fuck,” I whisper. “I’m doomed.”
“Well,” he says, voice thin, strained, “could be worse. You could’ve fallen out of the ambulance.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I murmur. “And you know it.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to focus.
Trying not to rub against him.
Trying not to moan.
He stays perfectly still. Like he knows one wrong move will tip us both over the edge. The space between restraint and chaos thins until it’s nearly nothing.
“I thought the pull hurt,” I breathe. “But getting a new body from Death himself? That’s a fucking kicker.”
I expect something, anything.
His fingers tightening.
A quiet breath, a laugh, maybe even some reckless encouragement to go ahead and risk it.
But instead, nothing.
Nathaniel stills like someone sucked out the oxygen from this entire vehicle. The heat drains from his hands. His chest no longer rises beneath mine in a steady rhythm. It’s gone tight, suspended. His fingers hover, unmoving. His pulse stutters beneath my cheek.
And I know.
I know.
Right.
I never told them.
Not about the punishment.
Not about Death.
Not that I got slammed with consequences for their mess: the stolen souls, the imbalance, the wraith.
This shiny new body? Yeah, that’s Death’s little gift. Apparently I need a power-up to fight the damn wraith, and he knows it. But no one mentioned it would come with a set of new problems, did they? I sure as hell didn’t know.
Nathaniel doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even ask what I mean.
But his silence says enough. He got it.
And before I can fill that silence, Cassian slams the brakes.
The ambulance lurches. The tires scream.
We’re thrown forward. Bottles rattle. Something skids across the floor. I grip the fabric of Nathaniel’s shirt, anchoring myself, breath caught in my throat.
Then—
Cassian turns in his seat, so slow I half expect his head to do a full exorcist spin. His mismatched eyes look about ten times more terrifying than they did a minute ago.
“Death himself?” he repeats, his voice low and incredulous.
I groan, dragging my head up just enough to glare at him, even though it feels like I’m trying to lift a cinder block. My body’s still heavy with whatever this new reality is.
“Yeah. Death. Capital D. My boss. Big on drama. Ringing any bells?”
Cassian just stares at me like I’ve sprouted a second head. So I keep going.
“Look, long story short? He wasn’t exactly thrilled with the chaos you three have been causing.
Stolen souls, breaking balance, unleashing a murdery void-ghost?
Turns out that’s not great for the afterlife,” I gesture weakly toward myself.
“And since I was the unlucky idiot tangled in your mess, I got caught in the crossfire. Death decided to punish me.”
Talon snorts. “Punish? You came back from the dead looking hotter than before. That’s not punishment. That’s a reward.”
I scoff and try to get off Nathaniel—for real this time. It’s harder than I’d like to admit.
“Oh yeah, totally,” I mutter, sliding to the floor of the ambulance. “Best day ever. Nothing screams ‘reward’ like waking up naked next to a totaled car, the world glitching around you, and a body that can’t even hold shape half the time.”
As I sit up, my voice drops to a mutter. I look Talon in the eyes. “Maybe the wraith will reward you next. Crawl out of the void and give you a nice, wet, murdery kiss. Real affectionate.”
Talon hums like he’s considering it. “Tempting. But I think I’ll stick with the one who actually came back from the dead.”
Honestly? At least he’s taking the news semi-well.
Cassian, on the other hand...
His jaw clenches. I catch it from the corner of my eye, his whole body drawn tight, like he’s one wrong word from exploding. His face is unreadable, but his eyes burn dark and dangerous.
“Let me get this straight,” he says, voice sharp enough to cut. “You’re saying Death himself intervened. And instead of punishing you, actually punishing you, he gave you a new body?”
He says it like he wanted me punished more, whatever that means. Rude.
Still, I shift just enough to meet his eyes, my expression flat.
“Didn’t you hear me? It’s not a gift.”
He does not look convinced.
“He brought you back from the dead.”
“Yeah. To fight a goddamn wraith,” I snap. “You think that’s going to be easy?”
His jaw ticks again.
“Fuck, Skye. You’re such a fucking brat,” he mutters before turning away.
I don’t know what’s crawled up his ass, but he’s being ridiculous. He’s not in my body. He doesn’t get to have an opinion on how it feels; and it feels like hell.
Why am I a brat for thinking this is a punishment? Weren’t my legs just sucked into the void? Didn’t I end up naked twice, in the past twenty minutes? Am I not being forced to work with a group of total assholes?
How about a little sympathy?
I glance at the others, trying to get a read on the room—or, well, the stolen ambulance.
Talon looks like he’s stuck somewhere between aroused and confused. His mouth is slightly open, his brows doing this little quirk like he just watched a sex scene and a car crash at the same time. I don’t think the whole Death intervened thing has even fully landed for him yet.
Nathaniel, on the other hand, is unreadable.
So it seems I’m the only one affected by Cassian’s mood.
And honestly? The tension pouring off him is suffocating. It thickens the air in this goddamn ambulance. I feel it in every breath he takes, every exhale a warning. He won’t look at me, which somehow says more than if he did.
He’s furious. At me, at Death, at the whole situation. Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it. I don’t know.
But I feel it. And it’s pissing me off.
I don’t get the chance to push him further, which, let’s be honest, I absolutely would’ve—because I forget, for one glorious second, that he’s a murderer and I could be next.
The radio crackles to life.
“Unit 46, do you copy?”
Oh. Oh, no.
We all freeze.
The police scanner. From inside the ambulance. The very stolen ambulance we are currently hijacking.
“Unit 46, please confirm your location—”
Cassian curses under his breath. He yanks it off the dashboard, hesitates for half a second, then throws it out the window with a loud clatter. The sound of shattering plastic and bouncing metal echoes back into the vehicle.
For a moment, no one breathes.
Then Talon speaks. “Well, that’s one way to handle it,” he mutters, clapping his hands once in slow, dry applause. “Real smooth, Cass. Subtle.”
Cassian glares at him through the rearview mirror. The look could cut glass. But he doesn’t say anything. His jaw flexes.
Nathaniel leans toward me. “You know his fingerprints are all over that, right?”
Right. Of course they are. He didn't wipe it down, didn't even think about it. Just tossed it like we’re not driving a giant red flag on wheels with sirens.
“Seriously?” I mutter. “Why not just call yourself in? That’d be smarter.”
Cassian exhales hard through his nose and scrubs a hand down his face, like he’s physically wiping the situation off himself. Then he throws the van into reverse. The tires squeal slightly as we roll backward.
And wow. That might be the most passive-aggressive way Cassian’s ever admitted he screwed up.
He pulls off the road onto some gravel shoulder and throws the van into park. Then he gets out, slamming the door harder than necessary.
I watch him in the side mirror until he disappears.
And then, noise. A lot of it.
The sharp crunch of metal. Glass breaking. Repeatedly. Loudly. Angry.
He’s destroying the radio. Or just letting out every ounce of frustration he can’t put into words.
“I swear to God,” I mutter, sinking lower in my seat, “that man has issues.”
“Don’t we all?” Talon mutters back. “Too bad for you, you’re stuck with us.”
I glance at him. He shrugs and grins. And that’s when it hits me. This bastard’s right again.
Before, I was untouchable. A Grim Reaper. Something more concept than person. I didn’t breathe, didn’t bleed, didn’t need.
But now?
Now I’m breakable.
Now I’m back in a body that can bruise and scar and panic.
Now I need them.
I have to trust them.
We need to be a team.
Fuck.
Cassian stomps back toward the ambulance, hands still curled like he’s ready to punch through another radio. He swings open the door and climbs back in without a word.
“Well. You’re already dressed like an enemy of the law, Skye,” Talon says, voice lazy. “Might as well commit to the criminal lifestyle.”
Cassian cuts Talon a look sharp enough to gut a man. No words, just that murderous stare that says everything.
And I think… I think Talon said that on purpose just to rile him up.
Nathaniel exhales, long and low. I turn to him, my stomach already bracing.
“Please tell me you have a plan,” I say, and my voice doesn’t even try to pretend it’s calm.
His eyes. Those mismatched blue and gray eyes, meet mine without flinching. Whatever’s going on behind them locks into place, something cold and decisive snapping through his features.
Nathaniel shifts slightly. His expression hardens. Then he nods toward Cassian.
“Drive faster,” he says quietly but firmly. “We need to dump the body. Everything else comes after.”
Cassian doesn’t need telling twice. The ambulance lurches forward, tires spitting gravel as we speed off again, through dark streets and sleeping neighborhoods, one very real Candy Maker tied up like leftover trash next to us.
And me?
I close my eyes and pray, to whoever might be listening. Preferably someone not actively trying to erase me from existence.
Because right now?
Having been murdered is starting to feel like the least of my problems.