Who the hell beats Kane Black to the punch?
The stitching sadist tugged the thread tight. My jaw clenched.
She noticed. Smiled wider.
"Almost finished," she said sweetly.
Another pull. Another flash of pain.
I thought about the girl again—the way she'd looked at me when our eyes met.
Heat.
I'd seen it clearly. The kind of recognition that bypassed conversation and went straight to instinct.
And I'd felt it back.
Which was unusual.
I didn't do attraction like that. Not the kind that made you notice someone and immediately start calculating. I did control. Discipline. Detachment.
But sitting there with her two seats away, I'd felt something shift.
Want.
Uncomplicated and immediate.
Dangerous.
The sadist tied off the final stitch and stepped back.
"Done." She dabbed at the wound, wiping away blood, then handed me a small mirror.
I looked.
Three neat stitches. Perfectly aligned. Almost elegant.
I raised an eyebrow. "I never would've taken a torturer for an artist."
To my surprise, she grinned—genuine and transforming.
"You must be new to Paris."
Then she left.
I actually laughed.
Maybe Paris wasn't completely unbearable.
But I stopped laughing the moment I stepped back into the waiting room.
The American girl stood at the reception desk, papers spread across the counter, posture rigid with frustration. The receptionist sat behind the desk, arms crossed, smug. And standing beside her was a doctor.
Their voices were low but heated.
"I have explained this already. The information you are requesting requires formal authorization."
"Ihaveauthorization. These are consular documents. Signed and notarized."
