Nico doesn't smile. His expression remains stone. But something dangerous flares in his eyes. "If I have to."
He thinks he can just grunt at me and I’ll obey. He thinks his alpha-male brooding is going to make me collapse into a puddle of compliant female gratitude. Please. I deal with stubborn, aggressive men complaining about their physical limitations for a living. I’m not intimidated by muscle.
I narrow my eyes and really look at him. The physical therapist in my brain overrides the terrified woman.
Nico is a large man. He holds himself with absolute control. But the kinetic chain of his body tells a different story. His left shoulder sits a fraction of an inch higher than his right. When he reached for the keys in his pocket, he rotated his entire torso instead of letting the humerus articulate naturally within the socket. The deltoid muscle is rigidly engaged, acting as a splint.
"You're compensating," I state flatly.
Nico stops. The terrifying stillness intensifies. "What?"
"Your left shoulder." I point directly at his collarbone. "You have zero internal rotation. You're guarding your ribs on the left side, too. The oblique is locked up. You took a hit. A bad one. Recently. You're hiding it well, but your trapezius muscle iscarrying the entire load of your arm. Give it three days and you'll have a tension migraine so bad you won't be able to see straight."
Total silence fills the stairwell.
Nico stares at me. The assessing look in his eyes shifts. It fractures into something raw, primal, and deeply unsettled. He is a man who builds fortresses. He is a man who hides his weaknesses behind reinforced steel and tactical planning. I just walked right past his defenses and read his pain like an open book.
"You're very observant."
"It's my job." I lift my chin. "I fix broken bodies. And yours is definitely broken."
"My body is fine." Nico's voice drops an octave. The sound rolls through the wooden landing and up the soles of my boots.
"Your body is a mess of poorly healed trauma and overcompensating muscle groups." I snap back, refusing to back down. "And considering you just moved an entire apartment's worth of furniture in overnight, you probably tore whatever scar tissue was trying to form. You're an idiot."
Nico steps closer. He looms over me, a tower of tattoos and suppressed violence. "Are you always this vicious before breakfast?"
"Only to men who stalk me and break into my building." I don’t take a step back. I refuse to give him the satisfaction. "Move. I have to go to work."
"I'll drive you."
"Absolutely not."
"Priya." The gravel in his voice turns into concrete. "You’re not walking out of this building alone."
"Watch me."
I push past him. Or, I try to. Nico simply shifts his weight, turning his frame into an impenetrable barricade. He doesn't touch me. He doesn't grab my arm. He just exists in the space I need to occupy. It is infuriating.
"Move," I demand, glaring at his chest. Looking up at his face feels too dangerous.
"The streets are not safe today." Nico looks down at me. His lashes frame eyes that hold the weight of decades of violence. "There’s a shift happening. The Bellanti armory next to your clinic is being scrubbed by people who don’t leave loose ends. You walked out right beside it. You are a loose end."
Cold dread pools in my stomach. The rigid boxes in my mind begin to rattle. The fire. The smoke. The sound of the clinic windows shattering inward. The smell of burning drywall. I shove the memories down into the darkest corner of my brain. I can’t panic. Panic makes you sloppy.
"I have a clinic to run." My voice shakes. I hate that it shakes. "I have patients scheduled. I have a life. You can't just hijack my life because you decided I'm a target."
"I’m not hijacking your life." Nico's voice softens, just a fraction. It is a terrifying sound. A predator trying to be gentle. "I’m ensuring you keep living it. I’ll drive you. I’ll sit in the lobby. You’ll treat your patients. Then I’ll drive you home."
"You expect me to just let you follow me around like a guard dog?"
"Yes."
The certainty in his single syllable makes my teeth grind. "I don't even know you."
"My name is Nico Costa." He offers the information like a slow round chambered. "I’m exactly what you think I am. And I am exactly what you need right now."
Costa.
