Leah's POV
The wind stole my scream. Or maybe I never made a sound. My body cut through the air like a rusted blade - all jagged edges and decaying purpose. Fingertips brushed cold metal, rope, the ghost of a railing that wasn't there anymore. My remaining eye watered; the hollow where the other had been throbbed in time with the seagulls' shrieks.
Salt. Rotting kelp. Diesel fumes.
The smells hit before the memory did.
I'd done this before.
Not the falling- the choosing.
A bridge materialized behind my eyelids, its girders bleeding rust into black water. My palms remembered the chill of that rail, the way my bones had vibrated as trucks roared past. The sunset had looked like fire consuming a photograph, edges curling, everything reddening before the burn.
That man.
His face came sharper than the pain of shattered ribs. Diplomat's uniform starched to knife-edge perfection, motorcycle helmet dangling carelessly from one hand. He'd leaned against a vintage Harley-Davidson, smile crooked as a healed fracture. Traffic blurred around him- horns, curses, the wet slap of fish guts on asphalt from the market downshore- but he'd been still. A statue in a hurricane. Waiting.
He saw me, and whispered my name. But the voice was so faint that it was lost in the noise of the crowd.
But somehow I knew it was my name. Not the one Finn used when he pressed cigarettes into my chest or the one those rogues called me when they used me like a fuck toy. This was older, softer, a word exhaled rather than spoken. Warmth bloomed behind my sternum, viscous and dangerous as a gut wound. I reached for him just as concrete met flesh.
The world cracked open in vermillion.
I tasted deck plating before I felt it- iron and bile, the electric tang of fresh-spilled spinal fluid. My right femur jutted through my dress, pearlescent in the dying light. Shadows moved at the edges of my vision, shapes coalescing into boots, oil-stained coveralls, the glint of a sawed-off shotgun.
"What the fu..."
The sailor's voice curdled. His retreating footsteps vibrated through my cheekbone. I watched my own hand twitch, tendons knitting themselves back into order with wet, clicking sounds. Healing had become a grotesque spectator sport- bones realigning like soldiers falling into formation, muscle fibers weaving themselves into cables.
A wet crunch from above. Lucas' descent was graceful; he landed like a feather. The sailor froze, shotgun slipping from trembling fingers.
Lucas twisted his neck and he fell down like a sack hitting the deck.
Another sailor popped up behind Lucas' back, holding a gun in his hand.
I didn't think. Didn't breathe. My body moved with the certainty of a sprung trap- palming the weapon, finger finding the trigger well before my conscious mind recognized the threat.
The blast tore through my eardrums.
Gore painted the air in a fine mist. The sailor's headless corpse swayed for three impossible seconds before collapsing. Warmth trickled down my neck- not blood, but something thicker, grainer. Brain matter. I stared at the smoking barrel, then at my own unmarked palm. The gun clattered to the deck.
"Did I…" My voice emerged shredded. "Did I just..."
Lucas rose from his crouch, neck already straightening. Moonlight carved his features into something both angelic and feral- high cheekbones smeared with engine grease, pupils dilated to swallow the blue of his irises. He stepped over the corpse without glancing down.
"You moved faster than a turned Lycan." His thumb brushed my jawline, came away bloody. "Who taught you tactical reloading?"
"I don't..." The stench of voided bowels hit me. I retched, doubling over. "I didn't mean to..."
"Stop lying to me." He caught my wrist, forcing my palm against his sternum. "You tracked the secondary target's approach through peripheral vision while maintaining firing stance. That's not instinct. That's training."
The wolfsbane bullet glinted between us. He pressed it to his temple, barrel still warm from my grip. "Do it. If you want to kill me, now it's the perfect time."
My fingers spasmed. The gun felt like an extension of my bones- familiar in ways that made my missing eye ache. "No! I can't... I'm not a killer. I'm just..."
"Broken?" His laugh sounded like glass breaking underwater. "We're all broken here, darling. Difference is..." He leaned closer, lips grazing my earlobe. "...some of us remember how the pieces fit."
The kiss surprised us both.
His mouth was all heat and teeth, a brand against split lips. I bit down hard enough to taste copper. He didn't pull back. Didn't flinch. Just tightened his grip on my hair until my scalp burned. When he finally broke away, his breathing remained steady. Mine came in ragged gasps.
"Clothes." He tossed me a grease-stained jumpsuit. "Now."
The fabric reeked of sweat and gun oil. I hesitated, fingers hovering over my bloodstained dress. Lucas turned without preamble, stripping off his ruined shirt. Scar tissue mapped his back- jagged claw marks intersecting with surgical precision cuts. My breath hitched.
"How did you get those scars...?" I asked before I could stop myself.
"From an admirer." He shrugged into a crewman's jacket. "Love bites."
The dark humor unsettled me more than the corpses. I stepped into the jumpsuit, fabric clinging to my trembling torso. Lucas watched now. Not leering, but analyzing. Cataloguing the way my left shoulder hitched when I zipped the front, the tremor in my dominant hand.
"Finn must have never seen this coming." He lit a cigarette with steady hands. "Eighteen seconds from critical trauma to combat readiness. That's new."
The name sent ice through my veins. "He doesn't know."
"Or he does." Smoke curled between us like a specter. "Those meds Dr. Jafar gave you. They suppress cellular regeneration in turned Lycans."
The deck tilted beneath me. "But I'm not..."
"Not what?" His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Not Leo's lab rat? Open your eyes, darling. Normal wereolves don't survive a seven-story drop onto reinforced steel. They don't headshot armed men while their ribs are still knitting."
The cigarette tip glowed brighter. I remembered Finn grinding one out on my collarbone - the sizzle of flesh, his detached fascination when the burn vanished by morning. "Remarkable," he'd murmured. "Like watching time reverse in a petri dish."
Lucas stepped into my space, voice dropping. "Leo's lab holds answers. Who you used to be. What they injected into you. Why Finn's obsession with your pain thresholds. Who you have seen in your dream."
The Harley-Davidson. Crooked smile. Hands that never shook.
Memory struck like a cleaver - the diplomat's lips moving soundlessly as I climbed the railing, his uniform cap tumbling into traffic as he lunged. Had he caught me? Had I let go? The recollection dissolved into static, replaced by Lucas' palm against my cheek.
"Stay with me." His command held unexpected gentleness. "We're going to walk through that cargo hold like we belong here. You'll keep your head down, your hands visible, and your heartbeat below 100 BPM. Can you do that?"
I nodded, throat tight.
"Good girl." He pressed a mop and bucket into my hand. "Now clean up the mess on the deck."
The engine's growl deepened as we descended. Lucas' scent enveloped me- gunpowder and bitter orange, an incongruous mix that made my healed ribs ache. Somewhere in the ship's belly, machinery thrummed like a living thing. I counted the sound to steady myself.
Keep the memory, I told myself. Bury it deep. When time's right, I'll run away from Lucas. From Finn. From all of it.
I lifted the corpses and threw them into the sea. There was blood on my hands.
Survival required no saints. I thought to myself. Only sinners who knew how to make others bleed.