by RC Boldt
Fucking hell… Countless times, I’ve anticipated the moment of firing that bullet. Craved it even. How the trigger would feel beneath my finger as I finally drew an end to the torture has been emblazoned in my mind.
Holding the gun in my hand, I flick my thumb over the safety, back and forth. Safety on. Safety off. Safety on. Safety off.
One bullet to the head. That’s all it would take to end this. It would be quicker than anticipated, but I’d be done once and for all.
Or will you? I grit my teeth at the inner voice, taunting me like a goddamn motherfucker.
Movement catches my periphery. My video monitors are dark except for one—the room the woman is in.
I stare at the screen before tapping at the control to zoom in and unmute the sound.
Whimpers. Petite, battered hands clench and unclench. Her beautiful face wrinkles in agony as tears track down her cheeks. Goddammit.
Fingers deftly flicking the safety on, I press the release and remove the clip from the gun. After stashing it safely in the hidden compartment of my desk drawer, I exit my office.
I’ll regret not following through. I know I will. But right now, this woman needs me. She can be pissed at me all she wants afterward, but I’m giving her another dose of pain medication.
Her evident anxiety over her situation and learning about her wounds twisted my fucking gut into knots. With no clue of who the hell she is or how she got here, her pulse may have gone haywire there a few times, but this woman was insistent on taking it on the chin. Her underlying strength could be seen even by a person with the most myopic vision.
And regardless of what I’ve been planning to do, this woman—her situation—calls out to me. I could place the entire blame on my obligation as a doctor to uphold the Hippocratic oath, but it would be a fucking bald-faced lie.
Something about her has already put my plans in disarray.
I’ll deal with both the repercussions—from my own failure to pull that trigger and for going against her wishes for more pain relief—another day.
For now, I have a mysterious patient to tend to.
Chapter 7
Roman Medvedev
Head of the Orekskaya Bratva
Sergei Vinogradov is a fucking punk who thinks he’s smarter than everyone else. He believes he’s invincible. That he’s fortifying and improving the legacy left behind by his deceased father, Mikhail.
I match his stare with my own, engaging in an age-old pissing contest between men.
Inwardly, I scoff at his delusions of grandeur.
“I told you I wanted to eradicate every trace, but you had to throw your weight around like a little bully on the playground.”
Sergei’s jaw flexes at my blatant insult, but he denies nothing. Because he knows it’s true.
“You let the one thing I wanted slip through your fingers.”
Sergei’s lips draw tight against his teeth as he delivers each word with a snarl. “There’s no need to worry. I’ve had this under control from the start.”
He leans in closer, delivering what I assume he believes is a menacing squint, but it doesn’t faze me.
“You need to remember the end goal.”
My smile is filled with pure malice. “Oh, I remember the goal with extreme clarity. We’ll unite our organizations and rule together.” I toss back the shot of vodka and rise from my seat.
Uncertainty and irritation flicker in his expression. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
I fasten the button of my suit jacket. “Our conversation is over, no?” Before he can utter another useless word, I pull open the door. “We’ll be in touch.”
Then, because I can’t help it, I add, “Partner,” before closing the door behind me.
Striding down the steps leading to the street, my men flanking me on all sides, I remind myself that this is necessary.
Dealing with a fucking pissant like Sergei is necessary to achieve my endgame.
He doesn’t need to know that my plan includes eliminating him when it’s all said and done.
Because in the end, I’ll finally have what I deserve.
I will hold the power, control, notoriety, and appreciation I’ve been owed.
What I never had because of him.
Chapter 8
HER
In the dream, I’m eight years old and my eyes are riveted on my mother’s face.
She stares up at me, her hair damp from the bloodied wound in her forehead.
The air is pungent with urine. I’d overheard some of the neighborhood boys talking about seeing people wet themselves when they were frightened enough.
Now, I know what they mean.
Mama’s dead, and I have no one. Her eyes used to be so pretty, but now they stare at nothing.
I want to cry like a baby, but I know it’s pointless. My lips quiver as I smooth her hair back. “I love you, Mama.”
I hope she hears me from heaven. I hope she misses me as much as I already miss her.
Blood leaks from her chest wound onto my dress, and I welcome it because it’s the final thing I have of hers.
It’s all I have left.
My cheeks feel wet, but I don’t bother to wipe them. I’m holding her for as long as I can.
Callused fingertips gently graze my hairline before a man’s hushed voice commands me to rest.
A moment later, I welcome the relief from the agonizing wounds of my body and heart. When the man’s tender fingers smooth a path between my eyebrows, my tension eases another fraction.
“Sleep.” His soothing tone lulls me further into the calming realm, allowing me to disconnect from my heartache.
Oblivion overtakes me as his fingertips trace along my hairline once again, leaving only one sensation in their wake.
Safety.
Eight and a half years old
He gave me this pretty journal the other day because he said he’s afraid I’m keeping too much inside. He told me it would end up hurting more, and it’s better to write everything down. So, I guess I’ll start.
I still miss my mama so much that my heart aches. Sometimes, it makes me cry at night because she’d give me special kisses and sing me a lullaby. But now she’s in heaven.
I think she can see me, though. I think she’s looking at us and knows that I’m okay now. That I’m safe.
I think he’s worried, too, because we move around a lot, but he makes it fun. He asked me if I missed my friends, and when I told him I didn’t really have any because they made fun of me and called me stupid names like Nerdypants, he got angry.
I’ve never seen him that angry before. I told him it was okay and that my mama always said they were jealous because I was smarter than them and always did my best in school.
He bent down and told me that he had a secret to tell me, but I couldn’t repeat it until I was much older. He said the secret included a bad word. Then he whispered that the other kids were jealous of me because I was going to grow up to be a badass.
I giggled when he said that but stopped because his face was serious, and then he told me so. He said he knew it from the moment he saw me.
That was the first time I hugged him, and I think I caught him by surprise. It took him a second to put his arms around me and hug me back, but when he did, it was so tight I thought my ribs might crack a little.
But it was nice. Not like my mama’s hugs, but different. A good different. I could tell he doesn’t hug a lot, so I’m glad I gave him one.
I read a book once that talked about how some people never get hugs, and they’re usually the ones who need them the most. I think maybe he’s one of those people. And I think my mama will be proud of me if I give him lots of hugs.
But not all right away, of course. I think it’s probably safer to do it from time to time and get him used to it. Just like when we’d go swimming and the ocean was chilly. I could never jump right in. I had to work up to it.
Anyway, yesterday, he taught me how to sew. It was
fun. He said he would teach me to fish, too, and a lot of other things they don’t teach in regular school.
Mama, if you’re looking down from heaven and reading this, I want you to know I’m okay. My heart hurts with missing you, but he’s trying to help me through it.
He’s a good man, even if he looks scary sometimes and doesn’t really smile. You always said my smile was like sunshine, so maybe if I try harder to be less sad and smile more, I can make him happy enough to smile, too.
I love you, Mama, and I miss you so much.
Chapter 9
DR. LIAM KING
“Woman.” I pin her with a hard glare, my jaw tight in both disbelief and irritation. “Are you trying to maim yourself?”
If it were possible for eyes to spit flames, hers would be doing so right now. “My legs still work just fine.” The stubborn tilt of her chin grates on my nerves because she’s trying her best to disguise the pain tightening her features.
After checking to ensure her bandages were still affixed from the night before and there was no sign of breakthrough bleeding, I had gone to the next exam room to grab more wound care supplies since these cabinets were running low. As soon as I reentered the room, I caught her removing the pulse oximeter.
At this point, I wouldn’t put it past her to try to remove the IV and catheter herself.
“It’s still too soon.”
One would think that my firm I’m the doctor here tone would elicit some acquiescence. Then again, I’m not dealing with the average patient.
An amnesiac who’s sustained multiple injuries and has no identification whatsoever is the furthest I can possibly get from my patients around here.
Christ. Of all the goddamn beaches in the world… And the fucking timing… Raking my fingers roughly through my hair, I’m tempted to tug on it—hard—out of frustration alone.
Our glaring eyes clash, neither of us willing to back down. I fold my arms across my chest. “Are you prepared to have a setback in your healing if you reopen a wound? Is your pride really worth it?”
A muscle in her jaw flexes, and at any other time, I might admire this woman’s stubbornness that mirrors my own.
“I want this damn catheter out.” Frustration morphs into desperation, a crease forming between her dark brows. “I’d give anything to just move out of this bed and wash my hair, Dr. King.”
“Fine.” I exhale a long breath. “I’ll remove it, but you’re not walking without assistance.”
Her mouth parts, but when I raise my brows in challenge, she snaps it closed.
It takes a moment to remove her catheter. Body tense, she casts her eyes at the wall. And I get it. It’s uncomfortable to have a catheter, let alone be vulnerable in this manner.
Scrubbing my hands in the small sink, I tell her, “The easiest way to do this is to get you out on the back deck and in a chair. The outdoor shower there has a detachable head. Plus, you’ll get some much-needed fresh air.”
A breathy sigh drifts from her. “That sounds wonderful.”
After I dry my hands, I support her and ease her upright on the bed. A strange jolt reverberates through me when she latches on to my forearm for balance. While I guide her to a position with her legs hanging over the side of the bed, I’m trying to figure out what the fuck my deal is.
She’s a patient and she’s female. Not exactly noteworthy, aside from the circumstances surrounding how she arrived under my care. So, what the hell is it about her that has my body reacting to her like she’s the human equivalent of catnip?
The old hospital gown draping her body is large; I chose it so it wouldn’t be tight or abrasive over her wounds. She appears even more fragile in the gown, the fabric practically swallowing her body. When one side slides down, baring one delicate shoulder, my goddamn dick wakes up.
All because of a shoulder. What the fuck?
As soon as her bare feet meet the tile floor, her legs tremble slightly, but she allows me to brace her with an arm at her back. All the while, I war with myself, feeling like a damn creepy motherfucker for getting aroused at a time like this.
“Easy.” I nudge the rolling IV stand, moving it with us as she takes two careful steps.
“I’m okay now.” She tosses me a glance, and I know what she’s about to say before the words even pass her lips. “I’m sure I can make it there on my own.”
Stubborn-ass woman. “If you injure yourself under my care, imagine how that makes me look.”
She huffs out a breath, and I watch while she remains focused straight ahead. It’s a good sign that her ribs aren’t causing her as much discomfort today. She appears to heal quickly—at least as far as her stitches are concerned. The sutured skin is healing better than the average person’s at this rate.
My main concerns now are her overexerting herself and reopening wounds, possible signs of infection, and her healing so quickly that her skin grows over the stitches.
The latter is a bit of a bitch to deal with but pales in comparison to the others.
Once we arrive at the sliding screen door leading to the back deck, she braces a hand on the doorframe, pausing for a moment. Her lips tighten into a thin line, her eyes averted. There’s that stubborn lift of her chin again. “I’m fine. I just…need a second.”
My jaw goes tight because she’s pushing herself too damn much already. Even as the thought races in my mind, a thread of admiration trails it.
She’s so fucking strong. Not once has she collapsed into tears. Not once has she acted like a helpless victim.
“All right.” Her voice jerks me from my thoughts, my hands still supporting her. Steely determination lines her pretty features. “I’m ready to continue.”
This woman has a spine of steel, and by the hint of perspiration beading her forehead, I know this much has taken great effort. I might laugh if I weren’t equal parts aggravated and concerned.
We manage to make it out on the deck, and I get her seated in one of the wooden chairs with the IV stand nearby. “Okay?”
Slightly slumped in the chair, she closes her eyes and exhales slowly. “Yes.”
I gently remove the cap from her hair, mindful of the healing gash near her temple. A hint of a smile tugs at her lips while the sun shines down on us with its intense heat. It’s like watching her stubborn determination melt away to reveal a softer version of her.
A light breeze washes over us, sending one strand of her hair casting over her cheek. Without a thought, I reach out and smooth it away. Her eyes flash open, locking with mine, and everything in me freezes for a split second before I jerk away.
What the fuck? “I need to get a towel and shampoo.” I flash her a sharp look, and my tone is firm. “Don’t move.”
A slight nod is all I get in return. She tips her head against the back of the chair before closing her eyes once again.
Her mouth, no longer tight with determination or discomfort, curves upward slightly as if she’s happily soaking up the sun’s warmth. My fingers twitch with the impulse to trace her lips and—
Hastily, I tear my eyes off her and force my feet to move inside and grab what’s needed while attempting to shake off whatever fucking spell this woman’s cast over me.
As I stride through the house, my mind races. I knew this moment would come—that I’d need to help her with some of the more intimate tasks because of her injuries. What I didn’t anticipate was my reaction to it—to her.
With everything in hand, I rejoin her on the deck and set everything in place before adjusting the water temperature. Detaching the showerhead, I run the water over her hair, and she lets out a sigh.
“God, that feels good,” she breathes, her eyes still closed.
When I use a generous amount of shampoo and carefully lather her hair, gently massaging it into her scalp, the little moan she makes reaches out and grabs me by the balls. Fucking Christ.
I will my dick to behave itself. This is so goddamn unprofessional. I’ve never reacted to anyone like this before, so wh
at the hell is it about this woman that has me bent out of shape over a motherfucking moan?
Rinsing the shampoo from her hair, I carefully use my fingers to comb through the long strands to ensure it’s washed away all the powder and sand. She presses into my touch like a damn kitten, and I freeze. Her eyes flash open, clashing with mine, her cheeks staining red.
“Sorry.” She winces before pinching her eyes closed. “It just feels so good.”
I resume rinsing, but my movements feel stilted. Awkward. Because I’ve never done this for a woman, and it suddenly strikes me as…intimate. Even though it’s not.
She’s my damn patient. That’s it.
Once the water runs clean, I pick up the small conditioner container and work it through her hair, smoothing it from scalp to end. After rinsing it thoroughly, I continue to run my fingers through her hair. It’s unnecessary, but I’m powerless to stop.
“I already feel like a different woman.” Her soft words, veiled with gratitude, wrap around me. She opens her eyes, but I avoid her gaze, concentrating instead on my task. “Do you think I could take a shower?” Hope bleeds through her tone, and I grit my teeth, forcing back the remorse at knowing I’ll have to deny her.
“Not yet.”
“Oh.” In my periphery, her features droop with disappointment. And that acts like a delicate hand gripping my fucking balls in its grasp. It’s what drives the words out of me before I can stifle the motherfuckers.
“I can give you a sponge bath, though. At least until your wounds heal closed enough that it’s safe to shower.”
A shuddering jolt reverberates through me, and I abruptly shut off the water. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What in the ever-loving hell am I doing? I grab the towel and force myself not to take out my frustration on her while I towel-dry her hair.
“That would be…great.”