Chapter 2 The Devil Lives, the Innocent Dies #2
“Did you just admit to a crime? As far as I know, there’s no hunting in Chicago.”
Ren
Depends where you look.
“You’re ridiculous. And definitely up to no good.”
Ren
Good men are boring for a gongzhu like you.
Gongzhu? “What does that mean? Is it an insult?”
He arches one sardonic brow. Damn him. Definitely an insult.
Narrowing my eyes, I point at him. “Good men don’t land themselves in my ER.”
He cocks his brow, his lips twitching.
Smile, Ren. I want to see that smile again.
Ren
But can good men make you smile like that?
I jolt and bite down hard on my lip. I was smiling. And not the fake kind.
Guilt arrives before I can stop.
Narrowing my eyes, I survey Lana’s former bodyguard, taking in his arrogant smirk and deceptively relaxed posture, the glint of quiet mischief that’s new. Something feels different—like he’s teasing me.
Ren
You look like you could use one.
“What?”
He frowns, his gaze softening like a gentle touch.
Ren
A hobby. A vice. You seem…tired.
My mouth dries. Instinctively, I turn away to hide my thoughts.
How does he know? That exhaustion weighing on me isn’t from not sleeping, but because I’m empty. My fingers twitch. I scratch at an invisible itch on my forearm.
Ren’s gaze drops, his hand reaching out to still my fingers. I glance down, seeing the skin around my couple tattoo I got with Blake—sunflowers in a vase—reddening.
A sound rumbles out of him. He frowns.
His gloved hands brush lightly against my jaw. Not quite a caress, but more like an insistence that I look at him.
Then he jolts back and types again.
Ren
A person can only run on fumes for so long.
“I-I’m not running on fumes.” My hands fly to my heated cheeks. “I’m fine. Nurse of the Month. What are you talking about?”
Ren
You can be more. Better than fine.
For a second, everything inside me quiets.
My gaze locks on his, and I find myself speechless. Ren didn’t say he was sorry for my loss. He’s saying I can be more than fine. More than exhausted.
Just more.
I don’t think anyone’s ever told me that before.
The phone rings and breaks the spell.
Shaking myself, I turn my attention to the lines flashing in red across the monitor.
I groan, recognizing what that means.
Rachel hollers from afar, “Aria! Need you. Three patients en route. Sounds bad.”
Minutes later, the ambulance bay doors swing open and all hell breaks loose. Leaving Ren in his spot, I dash toward the commotion.
“Female. Twenty-two. Multiple GSWs to the abdomen. No pulse. Nonresponsive. Two male subjects incoming. Surface-level wounds.” The paramedics wheel her into the trauma bay as a young man around my age follows quickly behind.
“Save her! Please.” Tears streak down his face. “She’s my everything.”
Another nurse intercepts him to assess his wounds. “Sir. Let them do their job. Now, let me see your arm.”
Rachel and I grab gloves and leap into action. Dr. Cavendish barks orders. Toni, the respiratory therapist, intubates. Blood. CPR. Surgery.
I climb onto the step stool, scan the girl, and start chest compressions.
Black hair, pale skin with freckles. Bruised cheeks. One earring missing. Someone hurt her before they finished the job.
God, she’s so young, twenty-two tops.
It’s not fair.
The monitors beep, and a code is called. More people crowd into the room, ready to transport the patient into surgery if we could stabilize her.
Crimson rivers seep through my fingers; her ribs crack under pressure.
“Come on. Do this. Do it for him,” I mutter, sweat dotting my forehead, thinking about the devastation on the young man’s face. “Do it!”
I don’t know how much time passes. The cries and screams blend with the beeping and screeching of the machines.
It all swirls together.
Then someone grabs my shoulder. A long, haunting beep singes my eardrums.
The flatline.
“No.” I shake my head and pump harder. My biceps strain, my lungs constrict.
Images of the past flash before my eyes.
Blake’s blond hair caked in blood. My inhuman screams as Shelly, his OR charge nurse, pulled me off him, saying they had to prep him for organ donation because he was a donor. His icy hands in the morgue.
Our fight the night before about wedding cake flavors—vanilla bean or caramel cream. Two tiers or three. It was so ridiculous. All of it was stupid, and I’d give anything to go back in time.
“Aria, stop.” Strong hands grip mine. “She’s gone.”
Vision blurry, I glance at Dr. Cavendish, his soft brown eyes sympathetic before he glances at the clock and calls the time of death.
My ribs tighten. I drag in air. It’s not enough.
I’m smothered beneath the oppressive weight of the past and the present.
Ignoring Rachel and the others, I stumble out of the bay, disoriented. Maybe Rachel was right. I should’ve taken the day off.
But I’m a goddamn professional.
Shrill laughter pierces the air as a bald man with his head bandaged is marched past, wrists cuffed, a cop gripping his elbow.
“Move, fucking bastard,” the cop yells.
“Hold your horses.” The man jerks his chin toward the trauma bay. “Serves the bitch right.”
My breath freezes, my gaze ping-ponging between the man and the gurney.
Then the sleazy gangster winks at me.
My vision reddens. A growl tears out of my throat.
He did it. He killed the girl.
Without thinking, I stomp toward him.
A hand clamps around my bicep, hard enough to bruise.
“You can’t stop!” The young man from earlier sways in front of me, his eyes bloodshot. “Save her. Why aren’t you saving her?”
Feet pound in our direction—security and staff incoming.
Tears spring into my eyes as his grip tightens. I struggle to no avail.
But then…I’m finally experiencing something other than the gray haze.
More. Something more.
“I-I’m sorry,” I whisper, but he doesn’t seem to hear me.
“Security!” someone calls out.
Before I can draw my next breath, my hands are free. A blur of a man appears where the boyfriend was standing seconds ago.
Ren.
His movements are brutal and efficient—one twist, one shove—and the boyfriend is on his knees, sobbing but unharmed. Security takes over, guiding the grieving man away to prevent him from injuring himself or others.
My savior doesn’t look at the commotion.
A nurse asks Ren a question, but he ignores her.
Instead, he’s staring at me.
He prowls toward me, shrinking the air between us until we’re inches apart.
The chaos in the room fades into silence.
Slowly, he lifts my sore wrist with his leather-gloved hand. A low, gritty sound vibrates from his chest like the storm battering outside. Then gentle fingers tilt my chin until my gaze meets his dark, whiskey-colored eyes.
“You okay?” he mouths.
I freeze, startled by an impulse to burrow against him.
“I’ve got you.”
A sudden urge to cry follows. How long has it been since I’ve been held? Protected?
I wet my lips, and his pupils dilate—a predator’s focus, sharp and searing.
I can’t look away.
Silently, he scrapes a finger along my cheek, and I shiver. These are fingers that have killed before, hands that have done unspeakable things. Hands I hadn’t noticed until now.
Awareness lights me up in all the wrong places, sharp and traitorous.
But alive.
He holds his touch there—tender and even reverent—his index finger rubbing circles on my skin as his chest moves up and down, up and down, slow and steady like a metronome.
Mesmerized, I inhale deeply before exhaling, my rhythms syncing with his, my heart rate calming. Four counts in. Then out.
“Again,” he mouths.
The room slowly snaps back into focus—the sterile smells and bright lights. Security darts past me. The boyfriend sobs somewhere down the hall. The cop with the cuffed man is gone. It’s business as usual.
But something’s shifted. The world brightens with color for the first time in the past year—fear, adrenaline, and something more.
And Lana’s former bodyguard, a dangerous fixture who used to loom in the background?
He suddenly feels like more, a flare in the night stealing my attention.
Ren takes my hand and crosses his fists over his chest. Sign language, that much I recognize, but I don’t understand what he’s saying.
When I don’t respond, those intense eyes warm up a smidgen. Without another word, he presses a slip of paper into my palm.
Then he rests his finger over my wrist for a moment, his brows furrowed, gaze intense. His pressure’s firm as he glances at the clock behind me.
Is he taking my pulse?
A strange, languid heat moves through me, and my breathing turns ragged. I’m suddenly aware—too aware—of his dominant touch. The care and the gentleness.
Blake’s blond hair and All-American smile flash across my mind.
What am I doing? Guilt tightens my ribs.
As if sensing my changing moods, Ren drops my hand and brands me with one last lingering glance.
Then he strides away without saying a word.
The air cools where he stood.
He heads toward the staff-only door at the end of the hallway. The one that requires a badge. Cops give him a wide berth.
How did he get the badge? And why am I bereft?
Befuddled, I open the note. Inside is a simple message:
Breathe in. Four counts. You’re safe. Nothing’s wrong with you.
My heart skips a beat. I grip the note, rereading it, inking those words into my brain.
Something in my chest loosens at the message I didn’t know I needed.