I don’t blink. I don’t shift. I’m a statue carved from graveyard stone.
"Cancel them."
Her jaw drops. A fierce, beautiful flush of angry red crawls up her neck. "Cancel them? Are you insane? I run a medical facility. People rely on me to heal. I don't cancel my appointments because a psychotic mobster decided to play bodyguard."
I lean back in the chair. The wood groans under my weight.
"Cancel the morning appointments. You’re not treating anyone until my men finish the sweep and upgrade the exterior cameras.”
Priya slams the clipboard onto the desk. The plastic cracks. She marches across the room. She stops two feet away from my chair. She is furious. She is magnificent. The air around her crackles with defiance.
She points a finger at my chest.
"You don't give orders in my clinic. You don't run my life. You're bleeding through your damn shirt. You're hiding a gunshot wound that you refuse to let heal properly. You’re a walking disaster, and you don’t have the right to occupy my space."
My eyes drop to my left shoulder. The fabric of my shirt is stiff with dried blood. The wound opened when I forced my way into the vacant unit below hers last night. The pain is a dull, constant roar in the background. I ignore it. I have ignored worse.
"Take off your shirt."
The command snaps through the air. Sharp. Clinical. Absolute.
I look up. Priya is pointing toward the nearest therapy table. Her eyes are blazing with professional authority. The fear is gone. The therapist has taken control. She knows how to fix broken things. She doesn’t know that I’m broken beyond repair.
I don’t move.
She crosses her arms. She taps her foot against the linoleum.
"Get on the table, Nico. Now. You're not bleeding all over my clean floors. If you're going to hold me hostage in my own building, you're going to let me fix that shoulder. Move."
The sound of my name on her lips sends a brutal shockwave straight down my spine. She has thrown it at me before, on the sidewalk, in the stairwell. But never like this. Never like a claim.
I stand up. I tower over her. The top of her head barely reaches my chin. I look down into her furious, beautiful face. I want to devour her. I want to consume her anger and make it mine.
I walk to the therapy table. I sit on the edge. The vinyl crunches under my weight.
Priya follows me. She drags a rolling stool across the floor. She stops right in front of me. She’s between my thighs. The proximity is a tactical error. She is too close. She is within striking distance.
"Take off the shirt."
I grip the collar of the tactical shirt and pull. The fabric tears at the seam, peeling away from the wound on my left shoulder. The dried blood flakes onto the floor. I strip the garment down my arms and toss it onto the floor.
The cold air of the clinic hits my bare skin.
Priya freezes.
Her eyes drop to my chest. Her breath stalls. She traces the ink wrapping my right arm. Her gaze drags across my torso. Scars map my ribs. Knife wounds. Shrapnel. The brutal history of my life written on my skin.
Her eyes trace the ink crawling up the left side of my throat. The sharp lines wrapping around my pulse.
She swallows. The professional mask slips. The woman underneath bleeds through.
I watch her pupils dilate. They swallow the brown of her irises.
She wants me.
The realization is a physical blow to the base of my skull. The mask breaks.
She wants me. Mine.
