CHAPTER 1 

Luna

I know something’s off the second my boots hit the third level of the parking garage. The air here feels tense, like the moment before thunder rolls. Bright fluorescent lights flicker overhead, painting the concrete in sickly flashes. I pause, scanning the rows of parked cars, searching for the source of the uneasy weight pressing on my shoulders.

I spot movement near a column. At first, it looks like a scuffle between a couple of men in dark suits, but then I catch the shine of a gun. My heart thumps in that old familiar rhythm—equal parts fear and readiness. I slip behind a concrete pillar, crouch low, and peer out just in time to see one man raise his weapon with shaking hands. He fires a single shot. The crack echoes through the structure, bouncing off the walls.

A man in a tailored navy suit jerks backward, hand pressed to his side. His ash-blond hair glints beneath the sputtering light as he staggers. Another shot rings out—then chaos. The blond man’s attacker bolts away, footsteps slapping the concrete with frantic speed. I press closer to the pillar, ignoring the burn of adrenaline in my veins. I want to stay out of this. I really do.

But I can’t just stand by. The wounded man sinks to his knees, and something flickers at the edge of my vision, I see the bright red staining his pristine shirt. His breath rasps loud enough for me to hear across the short distance. A harsh memory flashes behind my eyes. A soldier pinned under rubble, bleeding out while I scramble for a tourniquet. I blink that memory away and grit my teeth. Damn it. I can’t turn my back on this, even if I’m not wearing a uniform anymore.

I slip off my jacket as I hurry across the garage, eyes flicking from car to car to make sure the shooter is gone. The man in the suit tries to speak when I reach him, but blood loss robs him of clarity. He pitches forward. I catch him around the shoulders—strong shoulders, I note, and he’s tall, at least six-two. But his weight pulls him down. I lower him to the ground carefully, ignoring the way red warmth coats my fingers.

His eyes crack open, revealing a startling shade of steel gray. He narrows them at me, as if offended that I’m witnessing him in a moment of weakness. “Who… are you?” he manages, voice rough like he’s gargling shards of glass.

“Your best chance,” I say firmly. “Don’t move.”

I yank my phone out, only to realize I have no signal this deep in the garage. Typical. My gaze lands on the bullet wound. It’s high on his torso, near the left side of his abdomen. Not ideal—dangerous if it nicked something vital. He wheezes, tries to push my hand away, which earns him a hard stare from me.

“You want to bleed out for fun, or are you going to let me help?” I snap. My tone might be harsh, but my hands are gentle, pressing around the wound to gauge how bad it is. Deep enough. It’s going to need immediate medical intervention.

He winces, and a slight twist of his lips suggests a mixture of arrogance and pain. “I didn’t ask for a nurse.”

“I’m not exactly a nurse,” I mutter, ignoring the jolt of annoyance tightening my chest. “But if you keep squirming, you’ll be dead before you can insult me again, so maybe cooperate.”

He must see the resolve in my face because he stops struggling, though I can feel his tension in every muscle. Carefully, I push open his suit jacket. Beneath, a crisp vest is soaked with blood. I tear the vest open to get to his dress shirt, then press the fabric over the wound in a firm attempt to stanch the flow.

He tries to clench his jaw, but a faint hiss escapes. “What—do you rummage around parking garages, waiting to play paramedic on unsuspecting strangers?”

I exhale a frustrated breath, ignoring the rush of heated anger at his flippant question. “I was supposed to pick up supplies,” I say, not explaining further. My reasons aren’t his business. I glance around us for something to elevate his legs. “And you were obviously getting yourself shot, so I guess the universe had a plan.”

A strangled laugh chokes out of him, then turns into a cough. He curses, and his hand grabs my wrist, not to push me away this time but to anchor himself. “This—hurts.”

“I know.” Memories of combat settings swirl in my mind: dust, sweat, the ear-ringing pop of gunfire. I bury those recollections, focusing on the present. My lips press together in a tight line as I keep applying pressure to the wound. “Just stay still and breathe. We’ll get you to an ER.”

“I have people,” he rasps. “They’ll handle it.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Hope they handle it fast, because you’re losing blood.”

He regards me for a second with an unreadable expression, then gives a small nod as if conceding a minor battle. A movement from the far corner snags my attention, and I tense, ready to duck behind a car if more shots come our way. Instead, two men in black suits materialize, moving quickly toward us. Each has a small earpiece. Bodyguards? They look alarmed—gaze flicking between me and the bleeding man.

“Mr. Cruz!” one of them shouts. He kneels next to us, ignoring me for the moment. “We called for the SUV. Hang on.”

The second man hovers behind him, scanning the perimeter. I can almost see them calculating the best exit route. Their eyes land on the bullet hole, then shift to me. I see the question in their faces: Who is she, and why is she messing with our boss?

The one kneeling seems to gather a shred of composure, then speaks to me in a measured tone. “Thanks for assisting. We’ll take it from here.”

I grind my teeth at his dismissive words but resist the urge to snap. “If you can do better, go ahead.” My hands remain on the wound, maintaining pressure. The bodyguard glances at my technique, then realizes I actually know what I’m doing. He hesitates before leaning in with a fresh piece of gauze from a small med kit he pulls from inside his jacket.

I allow him to ease my hands away so he can press the gauze onto the man’s abdomen. Mr. Cruz tries to sit up, obviously still determined to prove he’s in charge of this situation.

“Stay down,” I say sharply, planting a hand on his shoulder.

He glares at me, but his attempt to rise fails. Pain slices through his features, and he sucks in air. “Who are you…really?” he demands, eyes flashing. “You don’t move like some random bystander.”

I notice his gaze flick down to my left forearm, where the edge of a black phoenix tattoo peeks out from under my short sleeve. He also spots the shaved sides of my head and the small scar that runs across my temple. His stare is far too intense, like he’s adding up clues and forming a conclusion.

My pulse ticks. “I’m Luna,” I say, which is all the answer he’s getting right now. “Former combat medic. That’s the short version.”

He exhales, seems to chew on my words. Something in that detail loosens the tension in his expression. “Thanks… Luna.”

I glance at him, surprised by the genuine tone. It’s a little softer than his usual clipped arrogance. “Sure,” I answer. “Try not to get shot again.”

Before he can reply, the squeal of tires reverberates around the concrete space. A black SUV whips around the corner, headlights flooding us with bright illumination. Another guard jumps out and rushes to help, flanking Mr. Cruz on his other side. With practiced efficiency, they hoist him to his feet. He looks like he wants to protest or pretend he’s fine, but the grimace on his face betrays the truth.

“Hospital,” I bark at the new arrival. “Now.”

His men nod, guiding him toward the vehicle. One guard glances at me over his shoulder, half-suspicious, half-grateful. “We appreciate your intervention, Miss… Luna.”

I give a quick nod, not bothering with last names. My forearms are sticky with blood, and my adrenaline hasn’t fully subsided. The guard helps Mr. Cruz into the back seat, then turns, clearly waiting for me to join them. I lift a hand, signaling no. “You’ve got this from here.”

The guard steps closer, lowering his voice as the SUV’s engine hums in the background. “Mr. Cruz—Damien, will want to speak with you once he’s stable.”

“I’m sure he will,” I say dryly. “I’ll pass.”

He tries to extend a business card, but I stare at it without moving. He clears his throat. “We pay well. Private contracting, security detail. If you’re ex-military, you know the drill.”

My gut twists. This is exactly the kind of entanglement I swore to avoid. Expensive suits, rich corporate types, hidden agendas. I shake my head. “Not interested.”

Before he can insist further, I pivot on my heel and stride away. My black combat boots echo across the cement. Every nerve in my body still stands on alert, scanning for lingering threats. My mouth feels full of dust and it reminds me it’s been a long day of errands, and nearly getting caught in crossfire wasn’t on my to-do list.

I head for my motorcycle parked near a pillar. The engine is silent, but the comforting shape of my vintage bike calms me. As I pass a small reflective puddle of water from a leaky pipe, I quickly glance at myself. Deep mocha skin, a faint dusting of freckles across my nose, and a hardened stare I sometimes wish I could soften. But old habits cling with a vicious grip.

When I swing a leg over the seat, I see the black SUV pulling out. The guard in the passenger seat tries to flag me down with a hand wave. I pretend not to notice. I snap on my helmet and rev the engine, letting the rumble roll through my bones. Then I peel out, forcing my thoughts to focus on the immediate task: get home, clean up, and forget about the bullet wound I just tended.

I slide onto the main road, weaving through the mid-evening traffic of the city. Neon lights and towering buildings reflect off my visor, giving the impression that the steel-and-glass architecture is reaching for the stormy sky. I’d love to enjoy the ride, but the memory of Damien’s gray eyes remains fresh. Something about his expression—the unflinching arrogance spiked with real pain hits me right in the chest. He can handle himself, right? He’s got a whole team.

Still, the image of him bleeding alone on cold concrete stirs the protective instincts I can’t shake. I remind myself I’m not in uniform anymore. I don’t have to fix everyone who crosses my path. The city air smells of car exhaust and damp pavement, but underneath it all, I sense a pulse of underlying tension. This place can chew you up fast if you’re not careful.

I navigate a few blocks, replaying the events in my head. The shots, the men in suits, the way Damien refused to show weakness even as his life leaked out through that bullet hole. Unbelievable. Then there’s the bodyguard’s suggestion that they need my help. Me, a woman trying to carve a quiet corner in life after seeing more than enough violence in a war zone. I parted ways with that existence—or so I keep telling myself.

A red light stops me short on a busy intersection. The glow of a flashing billboard illuminates the side of a high-rise across the way, advertising some tech company. A name stands out: Cruz Corporation. A stylized “C” with a stylized eagle behind it. My lips flatten in a humorless smirk. Figures. That kind of wealth doesn’t come without enemies. Probably a business rivalry turned deadly, or maybe something more complex. Not my concern—at least, not if I keep driving.

I look down at my forearms. Dried crimson lines mar my skin where I pressed on his wound. Even after all these years, blood on my hands still makes my stomach flip in a strange way. I open the throttle as the light shifts, shooting forward. My mind tries to bury the memory of the moment I first realized he was going to bleed out if no one stepped up.

Minutes later, I pull into the small lot behind my apartment building. It’s a run-down place with peeling paint and a cheap overhead lamp that flickers on and off in the alley. Cozy, right? But it’s quiet, and no one asks questions. I kill the engine, then yank off my helmet, letting the night air brush my scalp. My heartbeat remains uneven. I suspect I’ll dream of gunshots tonight.

I head upstairs, mindful of the squeaking steps, and let myself in. My studio space looks exactly how I left it: a single bed in the corner, a battered bookshelf crammed with medical texts and a few dog-eared novels, a punching bag hanging from the ceiling near the window. I shrug off my jacket, toss it onto the bed, and head straight for the tiny bathroom. Clean water runs from the tap, washing away the evidence of what happened tonight. I watch swirls of pink circle the drain.

A thought stirs, quiet but sharp—what if Damien is already in surgery. He’ll likely survive. The bullet missed major organs, if my quick assessment was correct. My mind wanders, conjuring the memory of his sharp gaze as he demanded to know who I was. He can keep wondering.

But as I dry my hands, I recall the guard’s words: We pay well. Private contracting, security detail. They have no clue I’ve sworn off that life. Maybe they think I’m just another ex-military type itching for a gig. If only they knew I’m not exactly itching for anything that involves bullets or men like Damien Cruz.

Still, a shiver runs down my spine when I remember the angle of the bullet’s entrance, the raw fury on the shooter’s face. That man had real intent. This wasn’t random. Something bigger lurks beneath the surface, some conflict that nearly cost Damien his life. Will it stop with one attempt? Probably not.

I toss the towel onto the sink, prowling back into my studio. My reflection glances at me from a cracked mirror near the bookshelf. I see the clipped edges above my ears, the tight coil of curls on top dyed a deep burgundy that catches the lamplight. My eyes look tired, though I doubt anyone else could see the exhaustion behind them. Most folks see me as guarded, prickly, or worse. I kind of like it that way.

Still, I can’t help remembering the day I got this black phoenix tattoo on my forearm—the day I told myself I’d rise from the ashes of war and heartbreak. A humorless huff escapes me. Fate loves to toss curveballs, doesn’t it?

I flop onto the edge of my bed and pick up my phone. No missed calls, no texts. Of course not. My social circle is small by design. I have a single friend in this city. Bianca—who’s probably working a late shift at the hospital right now. She’d want to know about my close encounter with a bullet, but I’m too drained to talk.

I can’t help but look at the jacket I left crumpled on the bed. It’s streaked with a dark stain. Damien’s blood. My jaw clenches. Ordinarily, I’d clean it and forget. But my mind pulses with a single thought: That man was too stubborn to die. He had that look.

I flick the overhead light off. In the darkness, I stretch out on the bed, still wearing my clothes, one arm draped over my eyes. Sleep doesn’t come, not right away. The city hums outside, the muffled roar of traffic reminding me that life keeps spinning even when one person bleeds out in a parking garage.

Eventually, exhaustion creeps in, and my breath evens out. But just before I drift off, a fleeting image of his face crosses my mind. The imperious tilt of his chin, the way his gray eyes burned with a fierce will to live. For a split second, I almost admire that arrogance. Almost. Then I remind myself that arrogance has a high price in this world.

I bet he’ll survive, I think drowsily. I hope that’s the last I see of Damien Cruz.

Somehow, I doubt it.