OCTAVIA POV
The phone buzzes in my scrub pocket for the third time in an hour.
I don't need to look to know it's Dad. Again.
"You gonna answer that?" Marco, my favorite ER nurse, raises an eyebrow as he restocks gauze beside me.
"Nope." I finish wrapping Mrs. Henderson's sprained ankle, forcing my brightest smile. "All done, Mrs. H. Keep ice on it and stay off those ladders, okay?"
She pats my hand with her wrinkled fingers. "You're such a sweet girl, Octavia. Your parents must be so proud."
My stomach twists. If only she knew.
The phone buzzes again the second Mrs. Henderson leaves. I yank it out, my jaw clenched so tight it hurts.
Need 500. Emergency. Please baby girl.
Emergency. Right. Like the "emergency" last week that turned into poker chips. Or the "emergency" before that—a bottle of whiskey and some pills Mom swears help with the pain.
My fingers shake as I type back: No. I paid Mom's chemo bill. That's it.
Three dots appear immediately. Then: You don't understand. People are coming. Bad people. Please.
My heart hammers. Dad's dramatic, but he sounds actually scared this time. Still, I've fallen for his act before. I shove the phone back in my pocket and get back to work.
Two more shifts. One at the hospital until six, then my overnight waitressing job until two in the morning. My feet already hurt and I've only been standing for four hours.
"Octavia, you look dead on your feet," Marco says, concerned. "When's the last time you slept?"
"Sleep is for people without student loans," I joke, but it comes out bitter.
The truth? I can't remember my last full night's sleep. Between nursing school, two jobs, and my parents' endless disasters, sleep feels like a luxury I can't afford. I'm twenty-three and I feel forty.
My phone buzzes non-stop for the next hour. I ignore every call, every text. Finally, Dr. Patterson tells me to go home early—apparently, I look "concerningly pale."
I don't argue.
Outside, the sky is dark and angry. The weather app warned about storms, but this looks worse than predicted. Wind whips my dark hair across my face as I start the fifteen-block walk home. The bus costs three dollars I need for tomorrow's lunch.
Rain hits like bullets. Within minutes, I'm soaked through, my scrubs clinging to my skin. Thunder cracks overhead and I flinch.
A car slows beside me—sleek, black, expensive. The kind that doesn't belong in this neighborhood.
My pulse spikes. I walk faster.
The car matches my pace. The window rolls down. A man's voice, smooth as honey: "Need a ride?"
I don't look. "No, thanks."
"It's pouring. Pretty girl like you shouldn't be walking alone."
Now I look. The driver is handsome in a way that screams danger—sharp jaw, dark eyes that seem to see right through me. But something about his smile makes my skin crawl.
"I'm fine." I speed up.
His laugh follows me as he drives away. My hands shake and it's not from the cold.
By the time I reach my apartment building, I'm drenched and shivering. The lights in the stairwell flicker—half of them burned out weeks ago. Our landlord doesn't care enough to fix them.
I climb to the third floor, my shoes squelching with each step. All I want is a hot shower and maybe, if I'm lucky, some leftover rice from yesterday.
Then I see it.
My apartment door is open.
Not just unlocked. Open. Swinging slightly in the draft from the broken hallway window.
My heart stops, then pounds so hard I hear it in my ears.
"Mom?" My voice cracks. "Dad?"
I push the door wider with trembling fingers.
The living room is destroyed. Our old couch is flipped over, cushions slashed open with stuffing everywhere. The TV—our only valuable possession—smashed on the floor. Picture frames broken, glass crunching under my feet.
But it's the walls that make me want to scream.
Blood. Streaked across the faded wallpaper in words that make my knees weak:
PAID IN FULL
"Mom!" I'm running now, slipping on debris. "Dad!"
The kitchen is worse. Chairs broken. Table cracked down the middle. Cabinet doors ripped off their hinges.
No bodies. No blood except the message. But no parents either.
My phone. I need my phone. Need to call 911. My hands shake so badly I drop it twice before unlocking the screen.
Then I hear it.
A footstep behind me.
Slow. Deliberate.
I spin around, and a hand clamps over my mouth, cutting off my scream. A strong arm wraps around my waist, pulling me back against a hard chest.
Hot breath against my ear. That same honey-smooth voice from the car: "Where do you think you're going?"
Terror floods through me. I try to fight, kicking and thrashing, but he's so much stronger.
"Shh, shh," he whispers, almost gentle. "Stop struggling or this gets worse."
Tears stream down my face. This can't be happening. This can't be real.
"Your parents sold you for drug money," he continues, his voice cold now. Clinical. "Didn't they tell you? You belong to me now."
Sold me?
The words don't make sense. My parents are addicts, sure. Terrible with money. But they wouldn't—they couldn't—
"They owed my boss two hundred thousand dollars," the man says, like he's discussing the weather. "When they couldn't pay, they offered something else as collateral. You."
No. No, no, no. This is a nightmare. I'll wake up any second.
His grip loosens slightly. Just enough for me to see his face if I turn my head.
I do.
And I freeze.
He's the most beautiful man I've ever seen. Olive skin. Dark hair with silver at the temples. And his eyes—amber-gold, like a wolf's.
Those eyes study me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. For a long moment, we just stare at each other.
Something shifts in his expression. Surprise, maybe. Or... interest?
"Wait," he says slowly, and I hear confusion in his voice. "I just changed my mind."
Hope flares in my chest. He's letting me go. He has to be—
His smile is slow, devastating, and absolutely terrifying.
"You might be... interesting."
Before I can react, he presses something soft and chemical-smelling over my nose and mouth. I try to hold my breath but my lungs betray me.
The world tilts. My legs give out but he catches me easily, lifting me like I weigh nothing.
"Sleep, little dove," he murmurs as darkness creeps in from the edges of my vision. "When you wake up, your life belongs to me."
The last thing I see before everything goes black is the blood on my wall.
PAID IN FULL.
And I realize with horrible, crushing certainty:
The payment was me.