Chapter 8

The California sun was bright, but the wind whipping through the San Diego mountains carried a sharp chill.

Aretha stood in the silent, stone courtyard of the ancient monastery. Her thin trench coat offered no protection. She looked incredibly fragile, like a leaf ready to detach from a branch.

She approached Silas Penn, a young novice monk wearing a simple linen robe.

Her voice was weak, barely a whisper over the wind. She didn't ask for a miracle cure. She calmly asked him about the procedures for last rites and how to secure a burial plot on the grounds.

Silas looked at the young woman. Her eyes were completely devoid of life. A deep look of pity crossed his face.

He reached into the wide sleeve of his robe and pulled out a string of polished obsidian rosary beads. He murmured a soft prayer for peace in the afterlife.

Silas held the dark beads out to her, offering them as a symbol of acceptance and death.

Aretha lowered her eyes. She slowly reached out. Her pale fingers, bruised with needle marks from her recent blood draws, trembled as they neared the stones.

Just as her fingertips brushed the cold obsidian, the heavy sound of combat boots slamming against the stone courtyard shattered the silence.

A large, muscular hand shot out from nowhere. The veins on the back of the hand were bulging with rage.

The hand snatched the obsidian rosary right out of Silas's grip, pulling so hard the connecting string nearly snapped.

With a violent swing, the hand hurled the beads at the hard stone floor.

Crack.

The rosary shattered into dozens of pieces, scattering across the courtyard.

Aretha gasped and spun around.

She found herself staring into Kian's bloodshot, furious eyes. He was breathing heavily, his hair a mess, having driven non-stop across the country to find her.

Kian didn't say a single word. He reached up and aggressively yanked a silver St. Christopher medal off his own neck. The metal was still warm from his body heat.

He grabbed Aretha's freezing hand and shoved the silver amulet-a symbol of protection for the living-deep into her palm, closing her fingers tightly around it.

"Don't you dare arrange your funeral," Kian growled, his voice vibrating with a terrifying intensity. "As long as I am breathing, I will not let you die."

Aretha was stunned by his sheer force. She tried to pull her hand back. "Kian, let go. I don't have time left."

The moment she said that, Kian's eyes turned red. The tough exterior broke. He grabbed her thin wrist in a vice grip.

Without asking for permission, Kian dragged her toward the exit of the monastery, completely ignoring the shocked monk behind them.

Aretha was too weak to fight back. She stumbled over the stones, forced to follow his relentless pace.

He dragged her out the gates to his mud-splattered Jeep. Kian yanked the passenger door open, practically lifted her off the ground, and shoved her into the seat.

He leaned over her, his chest brushing hers, and aggressively buckled her seatbelt. His movements were rough, driven by a paranoid fear that she would vanish into thin air.

Aretha fell back against the seat, gasping for air. "Where are you taking me?"

Kian slammed the door shut, locked the doors from the driver's side, and started the engine.

"To find out what the hell is actually killing you," he snapped, throwing the Jeep into gear.

He looked at her, his jaw set in stone. "The diagnosis has too many anomalies. I need a better opinion. I've already booked the top private VIP clinic in California."

The Jeep tore down the mountain road, leaving the ringing bells of the monastery far behind as they sped toward Los Angeles.

The cabin fell into a heavy silence. Aretha stared out the window. The absolute deadness in her heart had been violently ripped open by Kian's refusal to let her go.

Kian tapped his Bluetooth earpiece, speaking in rapid, highly technical medical jargon to someone on the other end, confirming their arrival time.

Aretha's stomach churned violently. She closed her eyes, terrified of what this forced medical exam would bring-a sliver of hope, or the final nail in her coffin.