Inside, Grace unknowingly offered shelter to the devil himself.
---
Luciano came to in a haze of pain and warmth.
The first thing he registered was the scent—clean linen, antiseptic, something floral and faint like lavender. The second was the low hum of a generator rumbling in the distance. The third was pain—a hot, pulsing burn in his side that spread like fire through his ribs.
He tried to sit up. A sharp breath tore through him. He gritted his teeth and collapsed back against the cushions.
Then he saw her.
A woman. Late twenties, maybe. Dressed in flannel pajama pants and an oversized sweatshirt. Her hair was tied up messily, strands clinging to her damp neck. She sat in the armchair across from him, holding a steaming mug, legs folded under her.
Grace.
That was her name. She had said it when she leaned over him, her voice soft but stern: "You're lucky I still believe in saving people."
She hadn't asked many questions. That unsettled him more than anything.
Luciano's throat felt like sandpaper. "Where... am I?"
She looked up from her cup, unsurprised to find him awake. "My cabin. Middle of nowhere. Closest neighbor's about two miles down."
He tried to reach for his side, but her voice stopped him.
"Stitches," she said. "Six of them. You move too much, you'll rip them open. Again."
He blinked, trying to read her face. She didn't flinch under his gaze, didn't look afraid.
"You shouldn't have brought me here," he muttered.
"I know."
"Then why did you?"
Grace stood, crossing the small space and setting the cup on the table beside him. "Because you were dying," she said. "And I'm a nurse. And... I don't leave people to die in the rain. Even when they're armed."
His eyes flickered to the corner of the room. His gun sat on the bookshelf, unloaded. Smart girl.
"You disarmed me."
"I'm not stupid," she replied. "You passed out holding a weapon and muttering something about betrayal and blood. Trust me, I thought about leaving you out there."
He watched her more closely now. She was cautious—but not scared. Curious—but not naive.
"What's your name really?" she asked suddenly.
He didn't answer.
She gave a small, tight smile. "Didn't think so. You don't have to tell me. Just don't lie again."
"Why do you care?"
Grace tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "I don't. But I've seen what happens when people run from something that's still bleeding."
Luciano let out a slow breath. He didn't know if it was the fever or the storm, but this woman—this stranger with stormy eyes and a voice like calm before disaster—was messing with his head.
"You need to rest," she said, turning to walk away. "Kitchen's that way if you can stand. Bathroom's across the hall."
He watched her leave the room without glancing back.
She hadn't asked who he was. Not really.
She hadn't called the police.
She hadn't even panicked.
And for the first time in years, Luciano Moretti felt something foreign creeping in beneath his skin.
He felt seen.
---