There are very few things that bring me joy in this cold, unforgiving world. Two, to be exact—if I'm being generous.

Sweet frosted cupcakes.

And a raging storm.

Tonight, I have both within my grasp.

The storm outside is vicious, unrelenting—my best fucking friend. It's the kind of storm that keeps people home, huddled in their blankets, too scared to venture out. That means no customers. No forced smiles. Just me, leaning against the benchtop, indulging in a piece of Ale's famous raspberry cupcake.

Honestly, what more could a girl ask for?

I glance at the clock. Ten minutes until closing. Even better. This late, the diner is as dead as the parking lot outside. Just the way I like it. Quiet. Predictable.

Scooping the last bite of cake into my mouth, I carry the plate to the kitchen. Scrubbing it clean, I wipe down the counters, remove my apron, and lock the bolt on the back door. I grab the bag of rubbish, hauling it toward the front. My mind is already on the sweet silence of my apartment.

Then I hear it.

The jingle of the front doorbell.

My footsteps falter, and a scowl settles on my face. It's always the same story: some poor soul thinking they can waltz in minutes before closing, keeping me hostage with their late-night cravings.

Whoever it is, they'd better make it quick.

Still grumbling, I continue forward, stepping into the brightly lit front of the diner.

My eyes land on him immediately.

A man, drenched to the bone, stands just inside the doorway, the harsh diner lights casting his shadow long against the tiled floor. The storm outside roars its protest as the door slowly swings shut behind him.

I take a second to size him up, the scowl on my face deepening. He looks like trouble—soaked through, his dark shirt clinging to a lean but solid frame. And then there's the blood. It's not a lot, but enough to make me notice the way it streaks down his arm, dripping onto the floor in lazy red splatters.

Fantastic.

"Got a first aid kit," he says, his voice deep and rough. A voice that matches the dark eyes and sharp cut of his jaw. 

I blink. "No, check the next diner, buddy." It's clear from his expression he is equally unimpressed with my response as I am his request. 

"I wasn't asking." The bleeding stranger uncurls his hunched position and I step back needing to look up into his face. What did the man eat, fucking magical bean sprouts? He had to be at least six-five. "This is going two ways cupcake, either you get me it or I get it myself... The second option involves you on your back and bound."

He takes a step forward, and I automatically grab the bat we keep under the counter, for these occasions precisely. He notices, of course, because despite the clear loss of blood, he is acutely aware of his surroundings. 

"Just one fucking easy night, is it too much to ask for," he looks up at the blinding fluorescents before dropping his attention back to me, a cruel smirk forms on his face. "You gonna' hit me, cupcake, you do it right because missing looks awfully grim for both of us."

I keep my grip on the bat tight. 

And when he sighs in expiration, I swing the bat with all my might. He moves quickly, hand sticking out to grip the barrel of the metal in his large palm. The force of his manoeuvre has me stumbling. 

Using his hold on the bat, he yanks me forward and spins me until my back is against his chest and the bat is pressed firmly against my throat. 

"Fucking hell, cupcake," he growls, his tone dripping with exasperation.

"Let me go," I hiss, twisting against him. His grip tightens, the bat pressing just enough to make my pulse spike.

"Relax," he murmurs, his voice low and almost soothing, a dark contrast to his iron hold. "If I wanted you dead, you'd already be on the floor."

"Good to know," I grind out. "Now get the hell off me."

To my surprise, he does. With a sharp shove, he releases me, and I stumble into the counter, the edge digging into my hip. I whirl around, anger and humiliation bubbling to the surface, but he's already let the bat drop with a clatter and collapsed into the nearest booth.

He leans back against the vinyl seat, his head tilted, one hand pressed weakly against his side. For the first time, I really see him—the sheen of sweat across his brow, the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the slight tremor in his fingers. He's fading.

A dead body isn't exactly on my list of top twenty things to deal with tonight.

With a frustrated growl, I snap, "You're bleeding out all over my freshly mopped tiles."

"Apologies for the inconvenience," he grunts back, sarcasm dripping from every word. "You planning to let me die here? If so, I hope you've got a good mop."

I glare at him, biting back a curse as I debate my next move. Call the cops? Grab the first aid kit? His eyes slide shut, his breathing uneven now, but even on the brink of unconsciousness, there's tension coiled in his body like a loaded spring. He's dangerous. I can feel it.

"Screw you," I mutter, grabbing the kit from under the counter. "I must be out of my damn mind."

His lips twitch, that faint, infuriating smirk returning despite the situation. "Looking forward to it, cupcake."

"Stop calling me that," I snap, but he doesn't reply. He just watches me, his gaze heavy and unrelenting even as his strength starts to waver.

I kneel beside him, yanking on a pair of gloves and peeling back his soaked shirt. The wound is worse than I expected—deep, jagged, ugly. The kind of injury that tells a story, though none of it belongs in a diner or inside my cynical mind.

"This is going to hurt," I warn, grabbing the antiseptic.

"Damn," he mutters, his voice soft and steady. His eyes flick to mine. "If I can feel it, it means I'm still alive."

I press the gauze against the wound, and he clenches his teeth, his fists tightening against the edge of the table. He doesn't flinch, though. If anything, he leans into it, like he's more comfortable with the sting than without it.

I work silently, cleaning and dressing the wound as quickly as I can. When I'm done, I wrap a bandage tightly around his torso and step back immediately, putting distance between us.

"There," I say, ripping the gloves off. "All patched up. Now piss off."

The words barely leave my mouth before the glass of the booth window shatters in an explosion of noise and shards. My breath catches, and I turn toward the darkness outside, heart pounding—just in time to feel the stranger tackle me to the floor.

The impact sends pain shooting up my back, and my glare snaps to him. His body presses against mine, solid and unyielding, pinning me down.

"Get off me—"

"Stay on the fucking ground," he growls, his voice cutting through the chaos.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The distinct crack of gunfire drowns out everything else, and I recoil instinctively, my hands flying to cover my head as pieces of vinyl, wood, and plastic rain down around us. The air smells sharp—burnt metal and ozone—and the sound of bullets tearing through the diner sends a cold rush of fear through my veins.

"What the hell—" I start, but his hand clamps over my mouth, silencing me.

"Shut up," he snaps, his eyes blazing. "Unless you want to be next."

My heart pounds as more shots rip through the air, punctuated by the sound of splintering wood. The booth above us is shredded, pieces of it scattering across the floor. I freeze, trapped between the hard floor beneath me and his body above me, every nerve screaming to move, to run—but where the hell would I even go?

The stranger swipes his gaze around the diner, "is there a back door?"

I nod. 

"Okay crawl to it stay low and don't stop."

I glare up at him, heat prickling under my skin despite the chaos. "Crawl? Are you out of your goddamn mind? They'll shoot us."

His jaw tightens, his tone sharp and brooking no argument. "Do I look like I'm in the mood to debate? Move. Now."

The urgency in his voice ignites a spark of terror deep in my chest, overriding my instinct to bite back. A fresh round of gunfire explodes above us, and my breath hitches as more debris rains down, sharp slivers nicking my skin.

I grit my teeth, nodding reluctantly. "Fine."

He shifts his weight, his body still partially shielding mine as he gestures toward the counter. "Stay low. Don't stop until you're out."

"And what about you?" I whisper, my voice trembling despite myself.

A ghost of that infuriating smirk flickers across his face, even as his eyes stay locked on the shadows moving outside the shattered window. "Worried about me, cupcake. This is nothing but another Thursday evening for me."

"Comforting," I mutter under my breath, but I don't waste any more time. Flattening myself against the floor, I start crawling, every scrape of my knees against the tiles drowned out by the deafening chaos. My heart pounds against my ribs, my body trembling with adrenaline as I make my way toward the back door.

Behind me, I hear the stranger grunt as he shifts to grab something—probably the bat I'd so heroically failed to use earlier. His low, measured breaths are the only indication he's still in control, even as bullets tear through the air like deadly whispers.

I glance back, just for a second, and freeze when I see him crouched near the booth, his shoulders tense and his hand clutching a gun I hadn't noticed before. The blood soaking his side doesn't seem to bother him anymore—his focus is absolute, his gaze trained on the figures outside.

"Keep going," he grins wild and manic. "I'll be right behind you."

He's a lunatic. 

That knowledge is enough to have me continue forward. My palms sweat as I inch closer to the back door. My breaths come fast and shallow, each one a fight against the rising panic clawing inside.

The door is just a few feet away when another volley of gunfire rips through the diner, the sound so close it makes my ears ring. I flinch, curling in on myself instinctively, and suddenly he's there—his body pressing against mine as he flattens us both to the ground.

"Move!" he hisses, his voice urgent and demanding. "I've got you."

My body obeys before my brain can catch up, scrambling the last few feet to the door. I fumble with the lock, my hands shaking uncontrollably. Why the fuck did I deadbolt it! 

Finally, it clicks open. The cold, rain-soaked air rushes in, and I almost sob in relief.

"Go!" he barks, shoving me through the opening.

I stumble into the alley, turning just in time to see him yank the door shut behind us. His hand presses against his side again, the blood flowing fresh and angry, but his expression doesn't waver.

"Keep moving," he commands, his voice leaving no room for argument.

In my head, I'm screaming at the universe, wondering how the hell my night spiralled into this—my beautiful downpour and the lingering taste of sweet raspberry cake all ruined by a blood-soaked lunatic.

The thoughts have little time to linger as the sound of footsteps pounding against broken glass inside the diner makes my blood run cold. Whoever these people are, they're coming—and they're not stopping until one or both of us are dead.

He jabs a finger toward the far end of the alley. "Around the corner. My car. Stay ahead of me."

I freeze, my feet glued to the slick pavement as the weight of the situation slams into me. This man—this bleeding, arrogant, maddening stranger—has dragged me into a world I don't understand, one spinning out of my control. My quiet, predictable night is gone, and now, my life feels tethered to his in ways I never asked for.

"Selene," he snaps, his tone sharp and unyielding, cutting through the chaos like a blade. "Move."

Two things hit me at once. One: how the hell does he know my name? And two: against all reason, I do in fact move. 

* *

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XX.