My pulse roars in my ears. The Morozovs rule this city, and Viktor Morozov was not supposed to be alive. Of all the places I thought I could be, this wasn’t one of them.
“Food will be brought three times a day,” Sokolov continues. “Petrov will come in daily. You will do as he tells you.”
The door closes behind me. I stand there, heart pounding, and understand I’m alone now. And afraid.
The room is larger than anything I’ve ever lived in. One wall is all glass, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the grounds. Moonlight spills through the glass and spreads across the floor. I stand there, unsure where to put myself. A king-size bed sits in the center. A single lamp glows on the table beside it.
Then I see him.
He lies beneath charcoal linens, bandages wrapped around his torso. Even unconscious, he fills the room. Viktor Morozov. The man everyone said was dead.
A faint twitch moves across his fingers. A rough sound leaves his throat. My body reacts before my mind does. A flush spreads from my chest to my neck, my skin betraying me with a throb of heat. I’ve seen men torn open by bullets before, but this is different. Looking at him makes my chest tight. It makes my blood turn thick and heavy.
I spin around, staring at the polished wood of the door. I grab the handle and pull. The lock holds. I try it again, but it doesn't budge. I'm not just here to work. I'm a prisoner locked in a cage with a ghost.
I force myself to turn away from the door, my heart still knocking against my ribs. I set the medical bag on the nightstand, my hands clumsy as I fumble with the latch.
Don’t look at him like that.
But when I glance back, I do anyway. From this angle, Viktor looks younger than I expected. The headlines had painted a monster, but the man lying there has a sharp jawline and skin that looks like bronze against the white fabric. He looks younger than the headlines, but just as dangerous. I touch his skin to check for a fever. He’s solid. Built for violence. The heat coming off him makes my own blood feel heavy. This is the man they warned me about.
Still, my gaze lingers. I catch it and drag it away, heat crawling up my neck. I’ve treated men torn open by knives, by bullets, by cars. I’ve cleaned blood from places I don't even like to name. None of it ever did this to me. None of it ever made my chest feel tight for no clear reason.
Get to work.
I step closer because I have to. Because there’s a bandage to check. Because someone’s life is balanced on what I do next. My fingers lift, then stall above the covers. It shouldn’t matter what they’re made of, but the fabric looks too expensive. Everything in this room feels like it belongs to someone else’s world.
Stop hesitating.
I lower my hand and press lightly. I’m feeling for swelling, for anything wrong beneath the surface. But the warmth under my palm is a hum that sinks into my bones. My fingers move bit by bit, mapping what I need to know. I tell myself the quick jump of my pulse means nothing. But then my hand brushes skin instead of fabric, and my thoughts scatter. I’ve spent years training my brain to see bodies as machines, but this young man's heat is a localized fever that my own blood is rising to meet. I’m touching a thigh the size of my torso and my groin is gathering heat. I’mgetting hard. It’s dysfunctional and wrong. I’ve spent my life looking at bodies like machines to fix, but this is a man, and the way I’m reacting to him makes me want to hack my own hand off.
I still my fingers at once.Breathe. Think.
This is not why you’re here.
I adjust my grip, but now I’m too aware of the space between my hand and his body. Too aware of the way my own breath has changed. How can a stranger feel this intrusive? I finish the check fast after that. Too fast. And when I step back, my hands feel strange. Like they don't belong to me anymore.
Viktor’s skin is warm beneath my palm, solid in a way that surprises me. Built to take hits and keep standing. I catch myself wondering how heavy he is, how much space he takes up when he’s not lying still like this. The thought makes my stomach flip, a mix of nausea and a hunger I don't recognize. I don’t want him to look at me.
Stop.
My touch drifts lower without me meaning it to. When I brush something unmistakably human beneath the covers, I don't jump. I just freeze. I forget to breathe. I don’t know what I’m doing.
I’ve spent years training my brain to treat bodies like machines. Parts to fix. This isn't a machine. This is a man, and the heat coming off him is making my head spin.
Does he know I’m touching him?
My scrubs itch. My chest feels too tight. I tell myself to look away, but instead I notice the way his scent fills the space between us.
Get back to work.
I force my hands to move. I peel back the gauze. The wound is a jagged mouth against his ribs. I clean the edges, slow and careful, focusing on the scrape of the swab against skin.
Don’t think about anything else. Don’t think about the heat under your fingers. Don’t think about how your own pulse is racing to keep up with his.
Dropping into the armchair, I slump back against the wood paneling of the wall. My legs are heavy. The adrenaline is starting to crash, leaving a localized fever in my blood. I yawn into my hand, but I don't stop watching him.
A sound pulls me out of sleep. My eyes flutter open. Then I hear it again.
