"What The Fu*ck Is Happening To Me?"

CHAPTER FOUR

Three days later and I still could not get the stranger out of my head.

I was supposed to be thinking about the apocalypse, not a man with green eyes and a ridiculous amount of muscle.

Unfortunately, my brain seemed determined to make other arrangements.

I could still remember the way he had stood behind me at the shooting range, close enough for me to catch the clean, spicy scent of his perfume. When he spoke, his voice had been low, almost lazy, as he told me to adjust my feet and stop tensing my shoulders. Then his hands had settled briefly on my arms to correct my aim, and for a few very embarrassing seconds, I had forgotten there was a target in front of me.

I pressed my lips together, remembering the way those sharp green eyes had watched me when I finally hit the target.

Get a grip, Vanessa.

I didn't even know the man's name. For all I knew, he had a girlfriend, a wife, or three women waiting for him at home. Besides, I had more important things to worry about than a stranger's arms, no matter how good they felt around me.

I turned back to the package on my desk and picked up the letter opener. I had ordered a few supplies online and wanted to check everything before adding the items to my inventory. The package was stubborn, and I was halfway through cutting the tape when my bedroom door suddenly flew open.

“Vanessa, what on earth are you doing with all this nonsense?”

I startled so badly that the letter opener slipped across my palm.

“Ah! Damn it!”

I dropped the letter opener immediately and grabbed my hand. A thin cut ran across my palm, and blood was already flowing out of it.

Dammit. This woman just made me bleed!

Matheo's mother stood by the door, looking more annoyed by my reaction than concerned about the blood.

“Honestly, you'd think someone had stabbed you,” she said, closing the door behind her. “Must you shout every time something happens?”

I looked at her, then at the blood running down my wrist.

“Maybe try knocking before you burst into my room.”

“I knocked.”

“No, you didn't.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don't use that tone with me, Vanessa. I've known you long enough to know when you're being disrespectful.”

I reached for a tissue from the bedside table and pressed it against my palm. “What do you want?”

She glanced at the packages on my desk, then at the shopping bags beside my wardrobe. Her mouth twisted as if she'd found evidence of a crime.

“Matheo told me about your spending. He says you've been ordering all sorts of things lately, and when he asks you about them, you give him attitude. What has gotten into you?”

I kept the tissue pressed against my hand. “I've been buying things I need.”

This would not work. I really really need to get a secured bunker to store all my purchases.  This is just not going to work. I cant get my revenge on them if they can see every damn thing I buy and start connecting the dots.

“You’ve been buyong thimgs that you need?” She picked up a receipt from the desk before I could stop her. “What could you possibly need so badly that you're spending this kind of money without even discussing it with Matheo? You're supposed to be building a future together. He has plans for that money, you know. There are investments he wants to make, and instead of helping him, you're wasting it on things that will probably sit in a cupboard.”

I stared at her.

Matheo had plans for my money. How touching.

“What investments?” I asked.

She hesitated for half a second. “That's between you and Matheo.”

“Then why are you questioning my purchases? Isn'tthat between me and Matheo too? He had to run to his mommy?”

“Because somebody has to make you see sense! Matheo is too patient with you, and you've started taking advantage of that. A woman your age should know better than to spend money like a child who has just been given her first allowance.”

I pressed the tissue harder against my palm, partly because it hurt and partly because I wanted to give myself something to do with my hands.

“And another thing,” she continued, looking me up and down. “I saw what you wore when you went out today. What was that supposed to be? You're a grown woman in a relationship, not some cheap little tramp trying to get men to look at her. Have you forgotten that you represent this family?”

My fingers tightened around the tissue.

“Don't call me that,” I said.

She stopped talking.

I met her eyes and repeated myself. “You can complain about my spending if you like, even though it's my money. But don't ever call me a tramp again.”

Her face changed. For a moment, she looked genuinely shocked, as if I had slapped her.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Have you lost your mind? I'm trying to help you, and this is how you speak to me?”

“Then help me by knocking before you enter my room and keeping your insults to yourself.”

She stared at me, waiting for the apology that usually followed whenever I dared to raise my voice. When it didn't come, her expression hardened.

“Matheo was right. Something has changed about you lately. You've become rude, secretive, and selfish. I don't know what you're trying to prove, but this attitude won't get you anywhere.”

“Are you listening to me?” she snapped.

“Yes.”

“And what do you have to say for yourself?”

“Nothing. You've said what you came to say, and I let you talk. What more do you want?”

She looked almost offended by the answer. “You used to have some respect for me.”

I nearly reminded her that respect was something people earned, not something they could demand because they were older. Instead, I gave her a small smile.

“I'll keep that in mind.”

Her eyes narrowed. She clearly suspected I was mocking her, but she couldn't quite accuse me of anything without admitting that I hadn't actually done anything wrong.

“Just remember what I told you,” she said, pushing back her chair. “Matheo has enough to worry about without you making things difficult for him.”

“I'm sure he'll survive.”

She opened her mouth, then seemed to think better of whatever she had planned to say. With one last disapproving look, she walked out and left the door open behind her.

I waited until I heard her footsteps disappear down the hallway before releasing the breath I'd been holding.

My hand was still throbbing. I unfolded the tissue, expecting to find the cut bleeding through, but the pain had already begun to fade. Frowning, I turned my palm toward the light.

The cut was gone.

I blinked and brought my hand closer to my face.

But I wasn't going crazy. The skin where the wound should have been was smooth, without even a thin red line to show where the letter opener had sliced it.

“What?”

I rubbed the spot with my thumb, then checked the tissue. There was blood on it, plenty of it, so I knew I hadn't imagined the injury. I'd felt the blade cut through my skin. I'd watched the blood run down my wrist.

But now there was nothing.

I stared at my palm, my mind struggling to catch up with what I'd just witnessed.

The cut had disappeared. Completely.

Was I developing some kind of ability? Was this connected to my rebirth? Had something changed in my body when I returned to the past?

I turned my hand over, searching for an answer I knew I wouldn't find.

"What the fuck is happening to me?!"