Page 95 of Maddening Fixation

At last, he spoke through gritted teeth.

“My pocket.”

I frowned. “What?”

“My phone.”

His breathing faltered. “Take it... from my pocket.”

He swallowed against the pain. “Call the first name in my contacts.”

A strained breath escaped him. “Keegan.”

I blinked at him, stunned that a man who looked moments away from collapsing was more concerned about reaching his phone than allowing me to stop the heavy bleeding.

His gaze drifted toward me again.

For one strange moment, it lingered.

Not on my face.

Lower.

His eyes traced the full, heavy curves straining against my dress.

He didn’t seem to realize how blatantly he was staring, how his jaw had tightened and his breathing had shifted.

I felt the familiar twist of insecurity bloom in my chest—he was staring so openly, so intently, that I wanted to cross my arms and hide them.

Yet he didn’t seem to realize how long his gaze had held, how dark it had become.

I ignored it, cheeks burning.

I reached into the pocket of his blood-soaked jacket and retrieved the phone.

While unlocking it, I quickly assessed his injuries.

Years of growing up around Bratva soldiers had taught me enough first aid to recognize which wounds couldn’t wait.

“The laceration on your forearm is losing the most blood,” I said, more to myself than to him. “If I don’t get pressure on it immediately, you’ll keep bleeding.”

A flicker of impatience crossed his face despite the pain.

“There’s a medical bag.”

I looked up. “Where is it?”

He drew a strained breath before answering.

“Inside the warehouse.”

He nodded faintly toward the building behind us.

“Third locker on the left wall.”

His voice grew weaker with every word.

“Black duffel.”