31. Nash
NASH
Islip through the warehouse entrance like a shadow, my boots silent against the concrete floor.
The massive space swallows sound, industrial echoes creating perfect cover as I move between rusted machinery and abandoned shipping containers.
My service weapon feels familiar in my grip—steady, reliable, an extension of my hand after years of training that most people don't know EMTs receive.
The conversation ahead makes my blood turn to ice.
"—when I mourn your death and insist that I want to stay close to your family to keep your memory alive. He'll never have to know the truth. That's something, at least."
That voice. Cultured, educated, with the kind of smooth confidence that comes from a lifetime of privilege. This must be Ethan, the fiancé who never bothered to look for Eve after she disappeared. The man who's been stealing from her father while playing the devoted son-in-law.
I edge closer, using a massive concrete pillar for cover.
Through the shadows, I can see them clearly now—Eve backed against the loading dock wall, hands behind her back, and a man in an expensive charcoal coat pointing a gun at her chest. Even from here, I can see the careful way she's working her wrists, testing the give in whatever's restraining her.
Smart girl. She remembers what Morgan taught her about zip ties.
Ethan looks exactly like I expected—polished, well-groomed, the kind of man who probably irons his underwear and color-codes his sock drawer.
Sandy hair perfectly styled despite the December wind, pale blue eyes that hold about as much warmth as a frozen lake.
He's holding the gun with practiced confidence, which tells me this isn't his first time threatening someone's life.
The casual way he's discussing Eve's murder makes rage burn hot in my chest. This bastard was supposed to love her, protect her, build a life with her. Instead, he's treating her death like a business transaction that needs to be completed efficiently.
"Just make your peace with it, Eve," he's saying, and the patronizing tone makes me want to put a bullet in his skull right here and now. "You interfered with my life. Now I'm here to take yours."
That's where the fucker is wrong.
I step out from behind the pillar, raising my weapon in one smooth motion. The satisfying click of the safety disengaging echoes through the warehouse like a prayer answered.
"Like hell you will," I say, centering the barrel on the back of his perfectly styled head.
Ethan doesn't even flinch. He just chuckles—actually fucking chuckles—like this is all some elaborate joke that only he understands. The sound makes my trigger finger itch with anticipation.
"Nash Callahan, I presume." He doesn't turn around, doesn't lower his weapon from Eve's chest. "I was wondering when you'd show up. I had a feeling that signing discharge papers wasn't common for an EMT. Especially one like you. Thought you might be protective over your…investment."
Investments. Like Eve is some kind of asset to be managed instead of the woman I love more than my own life.
"You're going to put the gun down," I tell him, my voice carrying the same calm authority I use with panicked accident victims. I need his focus on me, not Eve. "And you're going to step away from her. Now."
"Or what?" Ethan finally turns, moving with deliberate slowness that speaks to complete confidence in his position. "You'll shoot an unarmed businessman in cold blood? Somehow I doubt that. EMTs are trained to save lives, not take them."
His pale eyes assess me with the calculating gaze of a predator sizing up potential competition. What he sees must amuse him, because that cold smile spreads wider across his aristocratic features.
"You know, I looked into you after I discovered Eve was still alive," he continues conversationally, like we're discussing the weather instead of standing in an abandoned warehouse with guns drawn.
"Interesting reading. Nash Callahan, former pre-med student who dropped out of Columbia after two years.
Current EMT with a... flexible relationship with protocol.
Known to take bribes for looking the other way when certain patients don't receive the care they might otherwise expect. "
The accuracy of his research shouldn't surprise me, but it does. This man has been thorough in his investigation, which means he knows exactly how dangerous I can be when properly motivated.
But he didn't go back far enough to figure out I'm from Wintervale. That works in my advantage.
"What's interesting," Ethan continues, "is that despite your reputation for moral flexibility, you've never actually killed anyone. Lots of letting people die through inaction, but no direct violence. So I'm curious—what makes Eve Turner special enough to cross that line?"
He's fishing, trying to get inside my head, but he's also buying me time. I can see Eve working her wrists more frantically now, the plastic zip ties starting to give under her persistent pressure. A few more seconds and she'll be free. I made sure they were loose enough for it.
"She's special because she's mine," I tell him, and the possessive growl in my voice surprises even me. "And nobody—nobody—gets to hurt what's mine."
Ethan laughs, the sound echoing off the warehouse walls like breaking glass. "Yours? Nash, she was engaged to marry me. She shared my bed for almost eight years. She was planning our wedding while you were playing hero with other people's overdoses. What exactly makes you think she belongs to you?"
The words hit exactly where he intended them to, finding every insecurity I've carried about Eve since we were teenagers.
The knowledge that I walked away from her, that I spent years convinced she deserved better than what I could offer.
That maybe, despite everything that's happened, she still does.
But then I see the way Eve is looking at me—not with fear or uncertainty, but with absolute trust. Like she knows I'll move heaven and earth to keep her safe. Like she knows exactly who she belongs to, and it has nothing to do with engagement rings or wedding plans.
"Because she chose me," I say simply. "Even knowing what I am, what I've done, she chose me. And I'll burn this whole fucking city down before I let you take her away from me."
It's what I always should have done, but I'm righting my wrongs now.
Ethan's perfectly controlled expression flickers for just a moment, revealing something ugly and desperate underneath.
"You think you know her? You think you understand what she needs?
I was giving her stability, security, a future.
What can you offer her? A life on the margins with a morally compromised EMT who takes bribes from criminals? "
"I can offer her truth," I reply, and I mean it. "Something you clearly don't understand the meaning of."
"Truth." Ethan spits the word like it tastes bitter.
"Truth is that Eve was never going to be happy with small-town idealism and middle-class mediocrity.
She needed someone who could give her the life she deserved.
Someone who understood that sometimes you have to bend the rules to get what you want. "
The irony is staggering. This man who's been stealing from her family, who hired people to kill her when she discovered his crimes, actually believes he was doing her a favor by manipulating her into an engagement built on lies.
"You're completely fucking insane," I tell him, and I see him start to shift.
That's when I make my move.
I let him disarm me.
It goes against every instinct I have, every piece of training that's been drilled into my head since I first picked up a weapon.
But I see the calculation in Ethan's eyes, the way he's positioning himself to get a clean shot at both Eve and me.
If I try to maintain control of my gun, he'll just shoot Eve first and deal with me after.
So I let him lunge toward me. Let his expensive shoes find purchase on the concrete as he pivots with predatory grace. Let him think he's gained the upper hand as he moves to knock my weapon away.
The gun clatters across the concrete floor, skittering into the shadows between abandoned machinery.
Ethan's smile is triumphant as he swings his own weapon toward me, probably planning to put a bullet in my chest before turning back to finish what he started with Eve. But I just needed his attention on me.
Because I know how we timed this. And time is up.
He never sees Morgan coming.
She drops from the rafters like an avenging angel, all lean muscle and deadly grace wrapped in black tactical gear. Her landing is silent, her movement fluid as water as she tackles Ethan from behind with the kind of precision that comes from years of turning violence into art.
They hit the concrete hard, Ethan's gun spinning away as Morgan drives him face-first into the floor.
She moves like liquid death, every motion calculated to inflict maximum damage while maintaining perfect control.
Her dark hair whips around her face as she grapples with him, her expression cold and focused.
Ethan tries to buck her off, his expensive coat tearing as he struggles against her grip. But Morgan's been doing this since she was fourteen years old. She knows exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly where to hit to cause pain without causing unconsciousness.
She wants him awake for what comes next.
"Holy shit," Antonio's voice echoes through the warehouse as he strolls in through the main entrance, hands in his pockets like he's taking a casual walk through the park. "This is the guy? This is Eve's big scary fiancé?"