Chapter 2
Cassie
The smell of grease and cilantro clung to my clothes as I walked out of Mrs. Rodriguez's restaurant, my shift finally over. Fourteen hours of washing dishes and serving tables for sixty bucks cash—barely enough to cover this week's groceries.
My feet ached in these cheap sneakers as I took the shortcut through the back alley.
That's when I saw him.
A man slumped against the brick wall, his expensive leather jacket soaked black with blood. At first I thought he was dead—his head lolled forward, chin touching his chest, completely motionless.
Then I heard the wet, ragged breathing.
"Jesus Christ," I whispered, my hands flying to my mouth.
His arms were riddled with bullet holes, the fabric shredded where someone had used him for target practice. Deep knife wounds crisscrossed his chest, and his abdomen... fuck, his abdomen looked like raw hamburger meat.
Blood pooled beneath him in the dim light, so much blood I couldn't believe he was still breathing.
I should walk away. This screams danger.
But something stopped me from turning around.
Maybe it was the way his breathing hitched, like he was drowning in his own blood. Maybe it was because I knew what it felt like to bleed alone while the world pretended not to see.
"Hey," I called softly, crouching down but keeping my distance. "Can you hear me?"
His head twitched, a low groan escaping his lips.
Still alive, barely.
I made a decision that would change everything.
Getting a half-conscious, bleeding man up two flights of stairs to my apartment was like trying to carry a bag of wet cement. He kept slipping in and out of awareness, mumbling incoherent words that sounded like warnings.
"Almost there," I panted.
Blood smeared across my thrift store couch, turning my apartment into something from a horror movie.
What the hell was I thinking? Normal people call 911.
Instead, I was googling "how to treat gunshot wounds" while dumping my entire medicine cabinet onto the coffee table. Thank God for that mandatory CPR class freshman year, even if this was way beyond basic first aid.
The man's breathing was getting shallower. His face had gone gray-white, lips tinged blue. If I was going to do this, it had to be now.
"Okay, okay," I muttered, snapping on rubber cleaning gloves. "Might as well try. If he dies, at least I fucking tried."
I worked for hours. Cleaning, disinfecting, stopping bleeding with everything from tampons to duct tape when my first aid supplies ran out.
This was insane. I was probably killing him faster than the bullets had.
But somehow, gradually, his breathing steadied. The bleeding slowed. His color improved from corpse-gray to merely pale.
As the sun started rising outside my window, I finally collapsed in the armchair across from him, watching his chest rise and fall in steady rhythm.
That's when I really looked at his face for the first time.
And recognized him.
Holy fucking shit.
Alex Chase.
Alex fucking Chase was bleeding out on my garage sale couch.
I'd seen him exactly once before, a year ago at The House casino. Hudson had dragged me along during one of his "hot streaks," and there Alex was—holding court in the VIP section.
They called him the Lightning Prince back then. Twenty-six years old and already controlling Vegas's entire underground racing network.
Campus was full of Alex Chase stories. "Desert Reaper," they whispered, because his temper had a body count.
But there was one thing everyone agreed on: Alex was loyal to a fault. Cross one of his people, and he'd burn your world down. Help one of his people, and he'd die for you.
And that loyalty? That was going to be my ticket out of hell.
He woke up like a predator sensing danger.
One second he was unconscious, the next his hand was around my throat, slamming me back against the wall with enough force to rattle my teeth.
"Who the fuck are you?" His voice was rough gravel, his grip tight enough to cut off my air. "Where am I? Who sent you?"
I let my eyes fill with tears. Let my whole body shake like a terrified kid.
"I... I just wanted to help you," I whispered, my voice breaking perfectly. "This is my apartment. You were dying in the alley..."
His grip loosened slightly, but those sharp eyes never stopped analyzing me.
Taking in my cheap furniture, my textbooks scattered on the table, the first aid supplies still bloody from treating his wounds.
"You're just a student?" His tone suggested he didn't buy it for a second.
"UNLV," I managed, letting tears spill down my cheeks. "Linguistics major. I found you bleeding, I couldn't just leave you there..."
He released my throat but kept his body positioned between me and the door.
"My phone," he said. "Where is it?"
"It was destroyed. Looked like someone stepped on it."
Alex tried to stand, winced, and sat heavily back down. Fresh blood was already seeping through the bandages on his abdomen.
I pointed to my charging station with shaking hands. "I have more bandages if..."
"Don't." His voice cut like ice. "Just stay the fuck away from me."
But he didn't stop me from placing the first aid kit on the coffee table before retreating to what I hoped looked like a safe distance.
I slipped into my bedroom, leaving the door cracked so I could watch him.
He sat rigid on my couch, scanning every shadow like snipers might be hiding behind my bookshelf.
The next morning, I found Alex exactly where I'd left him—half-sitting, half-lying on the couch in a state of controlled alertness. His color was better, but those eyes tracked my every movement like I might pull a gun from my pajamas.
"How do you feel?" I asked softly, setting two sandwiches and coffee on the table.
He didn't answer, just studied the food like it might be poisoned.
"I have class today," I said, grabbing my backpack and trying to look nervous. "If anyone comes looking for me, please don't answer the door. I can't afford any trouble."
That got his attention. His eyes narrowed, reassessing me.
"What kind of trouble?"
I let my face crumple just a little. "The kind where people break things when they don't get what they want."
I left before he could ask more questions, but I felt his gaze following me all the way to the door.
During my linguistics seminar, I kept checking my phone for news. Sure enough, by noon the stories started appearing:
[Two Dead in Desert Shootout]
[Gang Violence Erupts in Nevada Wilderness]
[Underground Racing War Suspected in Mass Shooting]
Sparse details: two bodies at an abandoned gas station, both armed, both connected to illegal racing.
No mention of Alex, but the timing wasn't coincidence.
I closed my laptop and pulled out my linguistics notebook, writing in careful letters across the top of a blank page:
[Every devil bleeds. And when they do, they owe you.]