*~Mirabelle's POV~*
A sudden, percussive crash of sound jolted me upright. My head throbbed as if a million bricks were being hammered into my skull.
"What the hell?" I gasped, squinting against the dark.
I immediately glanced around. Where am I?
Then it hit me—I was still in my car, and the sky had darkened.
I turned quickly, checking if the black car and the masked man were still around. Nothing.
Was I imagining things? I wondered.
The noise, I realized, was coming from a club I'd parked near. It was late, and the sidewalk was swarming with life. I watched them through the glass—the drunk, the loud, the beautiful. They had alcohol in their hands and reckless smiles on their faces, lost in a haze of temporary pleasure.
A shiver ran through me. They looked so free. They had "forever" in their hands, while I had twelve months. They didn't even care if they were truly alive; they were just drunk
This is exactly what I need, I thought. To forget… to be drunk, to forget all about this Cancer and live and dance like this people here.
I had spent my entire life as a "goody two-shoes" for my grandma, buried in medical textbooks. My only dream was to become a doctor so I could treat her and the elderly for free. Now, that dream was a ghost. It would never be my reality.
I shoved the car door open and stepped out. I paused, waiting for the sharp sting of the glass cut in my foot—but it never came. I looked down, my breath catching. The last thing I remembered was bleeding profusely, the pain making me lightheaded. Now, my skin was smooth. There wasn't a scratch, a scar, or even a drop of dried blood.
"This is impossible," I whispered. I reached down to touch my heel. Nothing. Not even a bruise.
The day was becoming a fever dream. First, a death sentence. Then, a masked stalker. Now, a miracle healing. I shook my head, pushing the confusion aside. It was the least of my problems. If I was dying in a year, did a healed foot even matter?
I pushed through the crowd and stepped inside the club.
The interior was a sensory assault. The musk of sweat, the blur of naked skin, money scattered like confetti, and the heavy, sweet stench of expensive vodka. It was a place where people came to drop the weight of their responsibilities at the door. It was loud, hot, and beautiful.
I had never been to a club in my life. I felt like an alien on a new planet. Stumbling toward the bar, I claimed a stool and gripped the edge of the wood to steady myself.
The bartender turned to me, wiping a glass with a white rag. He looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on my disheveled hair and the desperation in my eyes.
"First time here?" the bartender asked, his hands a blur as he juggled glass and steel. He returned his gaze to the drinks he was mixing, but I could feel his scrutiny.
I raised a brow. "How could you tell?"
He offered a small, knowing smile. "Your expression. You look like you're irritated by every single thing in this room."
I bit my tongue. He wasn't wrong, but I didn't have a choice anymore. I forced a jagged smile.
"You don't look like you're having a good night, young lady," he said, leaning over the mahogany bar until his face was inches from mine. "You should leave before the big bad wolves find you. I promise, whatever bad day you're having, they will make it ten times worse."
I laughed internally. Ten times worse? I'd just been told I have twelve months to live. A wolf was exactly what I needed.
"Don't worry about me," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
The bartender reached for a menu and slid it toward me. "What'll it be, then?"
I glanced at the names—liquids I'd only read about in textbooks as toxins. "The strongest thing you have."
He paused, his hands going still. "Strongest what?"
"Alcohol. All of it."
"Are you sure?"
"Just pour it," I snapped.
He sighed and reached for a heavy, dark bottle. He filled a glass and slid it across the damp wood. I didn't hesitate. I gulped it down in one go. The liquid was liquid fire; it scorched my throat so violently I almost retched.
"Are you okay?" the bartender asked, his eyes wide.
I squeezed my eyes shut, gasping for air as the bitterness coated my tongue. I had never tasted alcohol before, and my body was screaming in protest. The bartender reached out as if to steady me, but I threw up a hand to stop him.
"I'm fine," I wheezed.
"You don't look fine," he countered.
I turned and gave him a hard glare. "Pour me another one."
"No, ma'am. I can't do that."
Anger flared in my chest—hotter than the drink. I reached into my purse, yanked out my ID, and shoved it toward his face. "I'm an adult. You don't tell me what to do." I slammed a hundred-dollar bill onto the bar.
The bartender went silent, nodding slowly as he reached for the bottle again. He refilled the glass, but just as I reached for it, a hand snatched it away.
A shiver raced down my spine, a coldness that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. I turned, nearly falling off my stool in shock.
It was him. The masked man.
He didn't say a word as he drained my glass in one long, smooth swallow. Up close, he was terrifyingly tall, his broad shoulders encased in a sharp, expensive suit that looked wildly out of place in this den of sweat and neon. I watched his throat move as he finished the drink, then he set the glass down with a hollow clack.
He turned to me, his eyes dark and heavy, boring straight into my soul. "That's enough alcohol for you," he said.
My voice shook. "Are you stalking me?"
He pulled out the stool next to me and sat down with a slow, predatory grace. I scrambled to my feet, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"I said, are you following me?" I yanked off one of my shoes, pointing the heel at him like a weapon.
He didn't flinch. He just raised a brow, his gaze unimpressed by my defense. "Do you even know me?"
His voice was a low, vibrating rumble—like fire smoldering underground. It sent a chill through my bones that was more intense than the burn of the vodka.
"No, I don't!" I snapped.
He didn't respond. He simply turned away, gesturing to the bartender to refill the glass he'd stolen from me.
Who the hell is this man?