CHAPTER 1
MIA
“I just want to know who you are,” a voice cuts through the fog of my dream, pulling me back to reality.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
My eyes flutter open, squinting against a room flooded with light—so much light. Could this be the sun my cricket used to talk about? I frown . No, it doesn’t look like the sun Katie showed me in her books.
The sun was supposed to be warm and golden, not cold and sterile like this.
“Holy shit, you’re awake,” a voice says, startling me. It belongs to a boy—a stranger.
I blink at him and then smile, because Father always said to be polite.
He’s going to hurt you.
Kill him, Mia.
I will. But not yet. I like to play with them first.
It wouldn’t be any fun if he saw it coming, would it? So, I keep smiling. It’s a crooked smile, the kind my father used to call “innocent.”
But the boy’s reaction isn’t what I expect. Most men do something predictable when I smile—lick their lips, their eyes darkening with thoughts they think I don’t understand.
Not this one.
He’s just staring at me, his expression a mixture of confusion and quiet curiosity, like he’s expecting me to do something different. Like I’m the unpredictable one.
But no, it’s him. He’s the strange one, not me.
I tilt my head, studying him more closely. The way he moves, the way he stares at me—it’s all wrong. Too calm, too kind, too... unreal. He’s like someone from the stories Paulina used to read to me. A character pulled straight from a fairytale, all soft words and gentle eyes, like nothing bad has ever touched him.
But I’m no fool. I know better. Those stories were just lies Paulina used to keep me quiet, to keep me sane.
Well, guess what? I’m not.
Men are all bad.
But I learned how to be worse.
Kill him. Do it! Now!
The voice in my head demands action.
And I do.
I launch myself off the bed, the cold floor biting at my bare feet as I close the gap between us in a blur of motion. My fingers hook into claws, and the moment they clamp around his throat, I feel the warm pulse of his jugular against my palms.
The sound of his breath—steady, maddeningly calm—should enrage me, but somehow it doesn’t. Instead, it sinks into my mind, slow and even, like the ticking of a clock. It steadies me. And that’s the part that scares me most.
But the itch is still there, just beneath my skin—the craving. I’ve always loved the sight of blood, the way it spills and splatters like a painter’s masterpiece. There’s something perfect about it, the way it arcs through the air, bright and vivid, leaving its mark on everything it touches.
Father used to say it wasn’t something a lady should enjoy. That I should smile pretty and keep my hands clean. But he didn’t understand. Killing isn’t just something I like. It’s the only thing that makes me feel.
It’s how I keep myself safe—how I stop the hands that reach for me, the lies, the pain, the control they think they have. Killing is my way of saying no. My way of taking back everything the world thinks it can take from me.
It’s survival. It’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.
I shove him down with a force that rattles the metal of the bed frame behind us. His head cracks against the floor, the dull thud of bone on tile reverberating in the weird room. His body folds beneath mine as I straddle him, pinning him in place.
Nothing. He doesn’t fight, doesn’t thrash, doesn’t even flinch. It’s as if he’s already gone, steady and unyielding like a corpse long resigned to its fate.
"Not funny," I mumble, expecting him to flinch, push back—anything. But he just sighs.
"Hospitals are shitty. I hate it here too," he says, his voice soft, almost kind.
The gentleness throws me off balance, like a sudden tilt of the ground beneath my feet. I mean, I’m literally trying to kill him. Can’t he be angry? Shout at me? Fight back? At least give me a reason—some motivation to finish the job.
Instead, he lies there, calm as ever, speaking to me like we’re having a normal conversation. The audacity of it confuses me, tangling up my thoughts.
It’s almost like... he doesn’t mind. Like he understands something I don’t. And that makes me grip his throat tighter, not out of anger this time, but frustration.
There's no panic in his eyes, no frantic clawing at my wrists. Instead, his emerald gaze locks onto mine, unflinching.
Blood rushes to his face, painting his cheeks with a faint flush, but not the desperate red of suffocation. My nails bite into his skin, in a new attempt to scare him into a reaction. My crescent moons leaving marks that threaten to break the surface.
I squeeze harder, waiting—no, craving—the signs of fear.
This is new.
His breath catches, a small hitch, but there’s no wheezing, no gurgling.
I lean in closer, the scent of his skin—clean, too clean—filling my nose.
Why isn’t he fighting back?
“Who are you?” I hiss, my voice low and venomous.
Blood vessels rise beneath his skin, dark lines snaking along his neck, but he still doesn’t struggle. His lips part slightly, as if to speak, but no words come. My grip falters, confusion clouding the edges of my anger.
Then, he smiles.
It’s faint, soft, like he’s amused by me.
That smile—it throws me off. It’s not smug, not cruel, not like the others. It’s real.
And it’s the most unnerving thing I’ve ever seen.
Yet, something unfamiliar stirs inside me, spreading through my chest like a ripple in still water.
My breath catches, shallow and uneven, as I watch the curve of his lips. The way he looks at me—not with malice, but with something calm, something unshakable—makes the room feel warmer, closer, as if the space between us is disappearing.
Heat prickles at my skin, spreading up my neck to my core, though I don’t know why.
My pulse quickens, a steady drumbeat in my ears that doesn’t belong to the anger I’ve always known. It’s something else entirely—something soft, foreign, and utterly disarming, and it is making me horny. I guess?
I start to notice things I shouldn’t.
The delicate flecks of gold that catch the light in his green eyes. The unruly way his hair falls across his forehead, as if it’s never obeyed a comb. The gentleness in his expression, not like the cold calculation I expect, but something that feels... genuine.
My fingers loosen their grip of their own accord, and I can’t understand why. I don’t want to hurt him anymore—no, that’s not it. I just... don’t know what I want, and the uncertainty shakes me.
My chest feels tight, not with fear, but with something I can’t name. It terrifies me in a way no threat ever has.
“Who are you?” I whisper again, leaning closer.
He looks... angelic.
My hands slacken, and I tilt my head, studying him. Then he smiles again—not a cruel smile, not the kind I’m used to.
It’s so genuine.
Katie smiled like that once, and I’ve never forgotten it. I didn’t want to. Because now I know what a real smile looks like. Like his.
“You’re strong,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’m sorry. Waking up like this must’ve been scary. I could say I’m not here to hurt you, but I don’t know if you’d believe me. So, I’ll just... stay here.” He gestures to a chair across the room. “You can ask me anything you need to. Don’t worry.”
“Are you an angel?” I whisper, my voice trembling.
Maybe I died. I remember giving myself to the light. And then... nothing.
He chuckles softly. “I’d like to say yes, but I guess that depends on who you ask.”
“Are you real?”
“Unfortunately,” he replies, grinning faintly.
Before he can elaborate, the door swings open, and a blonde woman strides in.
“It would’ve been nice to know she’s awake, Zane,” she says, her tone exasperated but light.
Zane.
My angel’s name is Zane.
He’s beautiful. His hair is a blend of honey and sunlight, as if the sun itself had shaped him. His green eyes are warm, yet impossible to read. I want to get closer, to touch him, to understand him.
Kill him.
No. He seems kind.
Kindness is a lie. Nice people have hurt you before. Protect yourself.
The blonde woman turns to me, her smile soft and professional. “I’m Dr. Charlotte Spencer. I know it sounds cliché, but you’re safe here. Can you tell me your name? What happened to you?”
“Mia,” I whisper. “My name is Mia.”