Chapter 2

Hardin

I woke up in her damn house. A place I never should've let myself be dragged to, but here I am. The scent of antiseptic still lingered in the air, mixing with something faintly sweet. Luna.

I've never heard of someone named Luna before. Her name sounds unique.

I blinked against the fog in my head, my body heavy and aching. I can barely move my arm without it feeling like it's on fire. The wound—shit, I can still feel it. The pain is nothing new. I've seen worse. Been through worse. But it's different when you're not the one in control.

The memory of how I ended up here hits me in fragments. A bullet in the shoulder—clean shot. At least that's what I thought. But it wasn't the bullet that did the real damage. No, it was the fucking knife that came after. A reminder from someone I used to trust. Someone I thought I could count on.

The bastard betrayed me.

I ran. I knew I couldn't stay in the warehouse. My men were compromised. The bastard men were closing in. I barely made it out alive. And when I saw her... I didn't hesitate. I wasn't thinking straight.

That's the thing about being in this world—sometimes you don't get the luxury of thinking. You just act.

But now, I'm in her house. A stranger. Vulnerable. Bleeding out in her living room like some kind of fucking charity case. I laughed at myself, but it's hollow.

I looked around. Her place was quiet, warm, nothing like my world. The walls here don't reek of blood or secrets. She doesn't seem like the type to get involved with someone like me. But I forced her to.

I don't know what's worse—being hurt or being stuck with someone who has no idea what the hell she's dealing with.

I shifted, testing my arm again. It still hurts like hell. But it's nothing compared to what I've been through. I've fought in wars, bled for this life, and yet here I am, at the mercy of a nurse who probably doesn't even know how deep this goes.

I tried to push myself up, but the pain shoot through my arm, making my vision swim. My body was heavy, sluggish. I need to get out of here. I can't stay, not in this place, not in this state. I don't need anyone's help.

"You'll need a new bandage if you want to heal. Otherwise, it's just going to get worse,"

I freeze, my head snapping toward the source. There, standing in the doorway, was her. Staring at me, her arms crossed, a calm expression on her face.

"I don't need your help," I muttered, trying to push myself up again, my body shaking with the effort.

But Luna doesn't flinch. Instead, she lets out a soft chuckle. "Coming from the same person who threatened me with a gun last night?" she said, raising an eyebrow.

That's right. I did threaten her. I came at her with a gun, acting like a damn animal, a stranger to her.

I gave her a hard look and slouch back down onto the couch. "And I can do the same again if you push me," I said, my voice low and dangerous.

I watched as her eyes flickered to the stool where the gun was still resting from last night. She didn’t move, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her body stiffened for a split second.

She doesn't let it show for long, though. She stepped closer, her gaze meeting mine.

"Let me introduce myself," she said. "I'm Luna."

She paused, as if expecting something in return, but I stayed quiet. She's not going to get an answer out of me that easily.

She gave me a pointed look. "And if you want to make sure I don't get questioned by the police, I'm going to need to know who you are."

I watched her, my eyes narrowing as I assessed her. She's not backing down, which annoyed me more than it should. Most people would be scared, at least a little, when facing someone like me, but she's not. She's calm, composed, and it's fucking irritating.

I didn't respond immediately. What's the point? I don't trust her, don't know her. She's a stranger, and I'm not about to start sharing anything with her. I'm still bleeding out on her goddamn couch, but that doesn't mean I'll just hand her my life story.

Instead, I let the silence stretch out between us. I can feel her waiting for an answer, her eyes burning into me, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction.

"You're still not getting an answer," I said finally, my voice colder than before.

Luna's eyes flickered, not to the gun this time, but to me. Her jaw tightened for a second, but she doesn't back off. "Fine. But if you're planning on staying here for more than one night, you're going to need to talk to me. I'm not some clueless idiot who doesn't know what's going on."

She steps forward, close enough now that I can feel the heat of her body, the sharpness of her gaze still trained on me. It pisses me off, how comfortable she's acting like she's in control, like I'm the one who's weak.

I felt the weight of the gun on the stool, the temptation to reach for it, but I resist. For some reason, I don't think it would be wise. Not yet.

"Do you have any idea who I am?" she asked.

I met her eyes, searching for any sign of fear, but there's nothing. She's completely unfazed. It's frustrating.

"Should I?" I replied, the challenge in my voice unmistakable.

For a moment, Luna just looked at me, like she's trying to decide something. Finally, she shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Just know that I'm not afraid of you."

I wanted to laugh, but I didn't. She thinks she's not afraid of me, but I can see the way her eyes kept glancing at the gun. The fact that she's even holding herself together this well says more than I care to admit.

I leaned back on the couch, trying to ignore the pain that gnaws at my shoulder. The wound is burning, but I can't show her weakness. Not yet.

"So, what now?" I asked, finally giving her a bit of attention. "You going to patch me up, or do you just like giving orders?"

Luna stepped closer, unfazed by the way I was still glaring at her, the tension between us still thick.

"I'm going to patch you up," she said, her voice softer now. "Because if you don't, you're going to bleed out. And I'm not about to let that happen in my house."

She moved toward me, her footsteps light and careful, as if she's aware of the dangerous person sitting on her couch. But there's no fear in her eyes. No hesitation.

She kneeled beside me, her fingers brushing lightly against my shoulder as she assessed the wound. It burns, sharp and jagged, but I hold myself still. I can't show her any sign of weakness, not when I'm in her house, at her mercy.

I can't help the grunt that escaped me when she touched the tender spot, her hand lingering there. As if she was trying to understand something. To force out the pain.

She grabbed the bandages from a small kit on the table and began working with precision. There's a quiet focus in her movements, and for a second, I can't help but watch her. The way she didn't rush. The way she's so calm, so sure of herself.

I didn't understand it.

She's got a steady hand, applying the bandage with care, yet there's something almost dangerous about her, something hidden behind those calm eyes. She's not the typical kind of woman I'd be around. Women in my world are either loyal or disposable. But Luna... she's different. She doesn't play by the rules.

When she finished, she took a step back and stood up her eyes still locked on mine. "There," she said, her tone soft but direct. As if patching up wound was the best thing she had ever done in her life.

"You'll heal faster with the right care."

I looked at the bandage, the way it's wrapped tight around my shoulder, and for a brief moment, I think maybe she knows what she's doing. It's a small, unexpected thing—her taking care of me, like I'm not the same monster who barged into her life. But that's the problem. I am that monster.

"There's something called thank you."

I raised an eyebrow, the word feeling foreign on my tongue. I don't do gratitude. Not in my world, "It's your job as a nurse to take care of patients."

Her eyes narrowed, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Not illegally," she responded, her tone clipped. "I don't treat criminals."

I can't help but be amused by her sharpness. A little fire. I like it. "What makes you say that?" I asked leaning back a little, testing her.

Her eyes flickered to the gun resting on the stool, then back to me, like she's weighing her options. I can see the moment when the truth hits her lips. "After what I witnessed last night... and your physical appearance..." She hesitates for a split second before continuing, "You look like a criminal. And so help me God, I don't want to have a bad record on my career."

The way she said it, calm but with a certain edge, hits me in a place I don't often visit. Respect. But I don't let her see it. Instead, I laugh softly, a humorless sound.

"Fair enough," I muttered,"But you're right about one thing. I am a criminal."

Her gaze hardened for just a moment before she nodded, walking towards the door. "Then we're done here," she said , but her voice lacks the edge she was trying to put on.

I watched her, trying to figure her out. She's smart, quick-witted, and not easily intimidated.

The question is—how much of her is still innocent? How much of her can be corrupted?