One
JOSIE
It’s twelve hours later.
My feet hurt.
Not the normal end-of-shift ache either.
No, tonight every single bone in my body feels like it's filing a formal complaint.
I lean my head against the train window and close my eyes, trying not to think about the last twelve hours.
The screaming.
The blood.
The mother sobbing in the hallway after we couldn't save her son.
The teenage girl with bruises in places no one should ever have bruises.
The drunk driver who walked away with barely a scratch, while the family he hit wasn't nearly as lucky.
Sometimes the terrible things people do to each other are just… too much.
I've been an ER nurse for fifteen years. You'd think I'd be used to humanity by now.
You'd be wrong.
Tonight was one of those nights that settles deep in your bones. The kind you carry home with you, whether you want to or not.
At least I'm going home whole.
Safe.
Even if home is a tiny, one-bedroom apartment with nobody waiting for me.
No husband.
No boyfriend.
No kids.
Hell, I don't even have a cat.
Not because I don't want one.
I love cats.
But my hours are so terrible I'd feel guilty leaving some poor furry little thing alone all day while I pull doubles and pick up extra shifts.
Story of my life, really.
Thirty-seven years old, curvy enough that every magazine insists I should spend my life hiding beneath flowy tops, and still waiting for a happily ever after that apparently got lost in the mail.
My sister says I should try online dating again.
I'd rather eat broken glass.
The last guy I matched with spent forty minutes explaining cryptocurrency to me and another twenty asking if I'd ever considered losing weight.
Like being fat was the worst thing I could be.
Much worse than being a shallow, vapid fuckhead.
Oh yeah.
Romance truly is alive and well.
I sigh and crack open one eye.
The train car is mostly empty this time of night.
A college kid asleep with his backpack clutched to his chest.
An older woman knitting.
A businessman snoring softly two rows ahead.
Normal.
Quiet.
Exactly what I need.
They get off at the next stop.
A couple of kids get on.
I ignore them at first.
Then someone yells.
I sit upright immediately.
Years in emergency medicine have conditioned me to react before I think.
At the far end of the car, three young men—late teens maybe, early twenties—have cornered someone.
I don’t know how I missed this man earlier—he’s huge.
And they’re just punk kids.
But they’re annoying.
Loud.
Drunk.
Stupid enough to mistake cruelty for entertainment, and possibly dangerous.
“Come on, man!” one of them laughs.
“What's with the costume?”
“Nice threads, Dracula!”
“Comic-Con's next month.”
The other two snicker.
The man they're harassing sits perfectly still.
He's dressed entirely in black.
Black coat.
Black shirt.
Black boots.
And he's huge.
Not gym huge.
Not football player huge.
Bigger than that.
Broad shoulders.
Long, dark hair brushing his collar.
Massive hands folded loosely in his lap.
Something about him immediately sets every instinct I possess on edge.
He’s dangerous.
But…
I don’t feel like I’m in danger.
Strange.
He slowly lifts his head.
And my breath catches.
He's beautiful.
Ridiculously, unfairly beautiful.
Strong jaw.
Dark eyes.
Lips that belong on the cover of one of the romance novels hidden on my eReader.
For one insane second, I actually forget how to breathe.
Then one of the idiots kicks at him.
The beautiful stranger frowns, then he stands.
Holy hell.
He's even taller than I thought.
The entire train car seems to shrink around him.
The boys stop laughing.
One of them swallows hard.
Smart kid.
Because something about this man is absolutely not normal.
His eyes flash.
Actually flash.
And then—he roars.
Not yells.
Not shouts.
Roars.
Like a lion or a bear or a fucking dragon from that series that was so popular on cable TV a few years ago.
The sound shakes the air.
Deep.
Primal.
Impossible.
The three punks practically trip over themselves trying to escape.
Within seconds, they're gone.
The entire train car falls silent.
Completely.
I don’t move.
Heck, I’m not sure if I breathe.
And then the stranger sways.
His massive body drops to his knees.
“Oh, my God.”
At first, I stare.
Then I move.
Because that's what I do.
It's what I've always done.
Helping people is in my blood.
Even if the patient in question just sounded like a lion possessed by Satan.
I hurry toward him, dropping my work bag beside him.
“Sir?” I ask gently. “Can you hear me?”
He doesn't answer.
His breathing sounds wrong.
Too rough.
Too strained.
When I reach for his wrist, heat slams into my palm.
He's burning up.
And then he lifts his head.
Our eyes meet.
My entire body freezes.
Not because of his size.
Not because of the strange golden glow flickering behind his pupils.
Not even because I'm suddenly ninety percent certain this gorgeous man isn't human.
No.
It's because he is staring at me like I’m the answer to his prayers.
I check his pulse and lean over him and, oh my God, he smells exactly like my favorite chocolate.
Dark chocolate with raspberries.
The expensive kind I only buy when I've had a really bad week.
And somehow—because clearly I am overworked and undersexed—my crazy brain decides that might actually be the strangest part of this whole night.
His lips part.
His voice comes out rough.
Broken.
“It’s you. Mate.”
I blink.
“Excuse me?”
His eyes drift closed.
And the giant, terrifyingly beautiful man collapses directly into my arms.