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The blood's still warm when I find him.
I'm dragging two trash bags to the dumpster behind the store, and there he is. Crumpled against the brick wall like someone threw him out with the rest of the garbage. His shirt's torn open. There's a gash across his ribs that's leaking all over the asphalt.
I should walk away. I know I should. It's two in the morning, I'm alone, and this is exactly how people end up on the news. But I'm also a caregiver—or I was, before the agency let me go—and my hands are already moving before my brain catches up.
"Hey." I drop the bags and crouch next to him. "Can you hear me?"
Nothing. His head's tilted back, eyes closed. His face is all sharp angles, like someone carved him out of stone and forgot to smooth the edges. Mid-thirties, maybe. Expensive watch on his wrist, but his clothes are shredded.
I press two fingers to his neck. Pulse is there. Faint, but there.
"Okay." I'm talking to myself now. "Okay, you're not dead. Let's keep it that way."
I yank my phone out and pull up the flashlight. The gash is deep. Not spurting, so maybe no artery, but it's bad. He needs a hospital. I should call 911.
Except.
Except the loan sharks told me last week that if I talk to cops, if I make any kind of noise that draws attention, they'll stop being nice about the payment plan. And yeah, this isn't about me. But if the cops show up here, they're gonna want statements. They're gonna want my name. And Carlo's guys are watching.
I'm not supposed to know that. But I've seen the same black sedan parked across the street three nights in a row.
"Damn it." I shove the phone back in my pocket. "You better not die on me."
I run inside and grab the first aid kit from under the counter. It's the good one—I brought it from home after the store got robbed last month and the owner didn't bother replacing anything. Gauze, antiseptic, medical tape. Not enough for this, but it's what I've got.
When I get back outside, he still hasn't moved.
I kneel next to him and peel his shirt away from the wound. He flinches. Just a twitch, but it's something.
"Stay with me," I say. "I'm gonna clean this. It's gonna hurt."
I pour antiseptic over the gash. His whole body goes rigid. A sound rips out of him—low, animal, nothing like a normal person in pain. My hands freeze.
"Shit. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I—"
His eyes snap open.
They're gold.
Not brown with flecks of gold. Not hazel in the wrong light. Pure molten gold, glowing like someone lit a fire behind them.
I'm on my feet before I realize I've moved. My back hits the dumpster. The first aid kit scatters across the ground.
"What the hell—"
He sits up. Too fast. Way too fast for someone who was half-dead ten seconds ago. The gash across his ribs is still bleeding, but he's not even looking at it. He's looking at me.
And he's sniffing the air.
"Who are you?" His voice is rough. Shredded. Like he hasn't used it in days.
I can't answer. I'm too busy staring at his eyes. The gold is fading now, flickering back to dark brown, but I saw it. I know I saw it.
"I asked you a question." He's on his feet now. He moves like the wound doesn't exist. Like his ribs aren't held together with skin and luck.
"Isla." It comes out barely a whisper. "My name's Isla. I work here. I found you—"
"You shouldn't have touched me." He takes a step closer. There's no limp. No hesitation. Just smooth, predatory movement that makes every instinct in my body scream run.
But I don't. Because I'm an idiot, apparently.
"You were dying," I say. "I was trying to help."
"Help." He repeats the word like it's foreign. Like he's testing it. Then his gaze drops to the gauze and antiseptic on the ground. Back to me. "You're a nurse?"
"Caregiver. I mean—I was. I got laid off."
Why am I telling him this? Why am I still standing here?
He moves closer. Close enough that I can see the blood still soaking through his shirt. Close enough that I can smell it—copper and something else. Something sharp and wild that doesn't belong in a city alley.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," he says.
I almost laugh. "Yeah, well. Rent's not gonna pay itself."
He doesn't smile. Doesn't even blink. Just keeps staring at me with those dark eyes that were glowing gold a minute ago.
Then he leans in.
I stop breathing.
He's not touching me. Not yet. But he's so close I can feel the heat coming off him. Can hear the way his breath catches when he inhales near my neck.
"What are you doing?" My voice shakes.
"You smell like her."
I shove him. Hard. He doesn't budge. It's like pushing a brick wall.
"Back off."
"Like her," he says again. Quieter this time. "But not the same. Not quite."
"I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know you. I just—" I duck under his arm and put three feet of space between us. "I just wanted to make sure you didn't bleed out behind my store. You're welcome, by the way."
I'm halfway to the door when his hand closes around my wrist.
Not rough. Not tight. But I can feel the strength in it. The kind of grip that could snap bone if he wanted to.
"Wait."
I freeze.
"I need your name again," he says.
"Isla. Isla Moray."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "Darius."
"Great. Nice to meet you. Can I have my hand back now?"
He doesn't let go. His thumb presses against my pulse point. I feel it—the way my heartbeat kicks up. The way my skin goes hot under his touch.
"You're not safe here," he says.
"Yeah, I'm getting that impression."
"Not because of me." His eyes flick toward the street. Toward the black sedan I know is parked out front. "Because of them."
My stomach drops. "How do you—"
"Go home, Isla Moray." He lets go of my wrist. Steps back. And for the first time since he woke up, I see something almost human in his face. Something tired. "Forget you saw me."
I should. I know I should.
But I'm still standing there when he walks away. Still watching when he reaches the mouth of the alley and looks back at me one last time.
The streetlight catches his face.
His eyes flash gold again.
Then he's gone.
I stand there for thirty seconds. Maybe a minute. My wrist still tingles where he grabbed me. My heart's still pounding.
I go back inside. Lock the door. Sit down behind the counter and try to pretend my hands aren't shaking.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number.
I stare at it. Consider not answering. Answer anyway.
"Yeah?"
"You smell like my dead mate." It's Darius. His voice is rough again. Raw. "And I need to know why."