Chapter 02—The Night I Should’ve Kept Walking

Rain should make it harder to bleed, but tonight it feels like it’s helping—washing every drop down my side, carrying the evidence away. Doesn’t matter. I’m leaving too much behind. Anyone who knows how to read a trail could follow me blind.

My vision tilts again.

Not now.

Not here.

I grip the wall to steady myself, fingers slipping on wet brick. The pavement blurs. The shadows tilt. The world keeps trying to fold in on itself, but I force it back open. Pain is nothing new. Blood loss is nothing new. Running is nothing new.

What is new is the way my pulse keeps hammering against bone like it’s trying to outrun me too.

I should’ve kept moving.

Should’ve taken the long route, the one with exits.

But instinct shoved me into this street—a narrow stretch of quiet in a city that never shuts up.

And then I see her.

A woman standing in the doorway of a flower shop like she’s never learned to be afraid of the dark. Soft light behind her, painted gold around the edges. She shouldn’t be here. Not at this hour. Not in this part of town. Not where men like me run when the night goes bad.

I slow before I can stop myself.

Stupid.

Her eyes widen when she sees me—injured, soaked, barely upright. Any sane person would’ve slammed the door. Locked it. Pretended I was just another problem passing by.

Instead, she steps toward me.

“Are you okay?” she calls out.

Her voice carries through the rain—steady, gentle, not nearly cautious enough.

I shake my head.

“You shouldn’t be out here.”

She hears the warning.

She ignores it.

“Come inside,” she says. “Please.”

God help me.

I should leave.

I should keep walking until the bleeding stops or my legs do.

But something in her voice cuts through the noise—the fear, the anger, the instincts screaming to run. Something quiet. Something I don’t deserve.

So I move toward her.

My ribs burn.

My legs buckle.

I catch the doorway with one hand, the weight of my body threatening to drag me down.

She reaches for me.

Small hand. Warm.

Steady in a way mine stopped being years ago.

Up close, she smells like rain and flowers and something I can’t name because I don’t let myself name things anymore.

“You’re hurt,” she whispers.

Understatement of the year.

But the way she says it—soft, worried, real—hits deeper than the wound itself.

I step inside her shop, and the world shifts.

The air is warm.

Bright.

Too clean for a man like me.

“Sit,” she urges.

I try.

My vision sputters.

My balance goes with it.

She catches my arm—unexpected strength in her hold—and guides me onto a stool like she’s done this before. Like helping bleeding strangers is normal.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask.

Her eyes flick up to mine, steady despite the fear I know she feels.

“Because you need help.”

Simple.

Dangerous.

No agendas. No bargains.

Just truth.

People like her don’t survive long in my world.

“You don’t even know me,” I murmur.

“I don’t need to,” she says. “You’re hurt.”

Something sharp twists in my chest.

Not pain.

Something else I haven’t felt in years.

Outside, footsteps echo faintly—shadows tracking my trail.

She doesn’t hear them.

But I do.

And for the first time since the night went to hell, I’m terrified.

Not for me.

For her.

I take a slow breath, steadying myself.

“What’s your name?” she asks softly.

I swallow hard.

Telling her feels reckless.

But the truth slips out before the lie can form.

“Damon.”

She nods once.

“Ava.”

A name like a quiet promise.

A name I shouldn’t want to remember.

“You’ll be okay,” she murmurs.

No.

I won’t.

But maybe she will—if I find a way to keep the darkness that follows me from touching her.

I close my eyes for a moment.

Just a moment.

Long enough to realize that the night didn’t bring me here to die.

It brought me here to choose.

And God help me…

I choose her.