Wiry. Scarred.
Blood still trickling from a shallow cut at his temple.
The taller man exhaled slowly, shaking his head.
“...Honestly,” he muttered, half in disbelief, half in something like reluctant respect, “this girl’s got a fucking iron spirit.”
His gaze flicked toward me.
“Took down six of our best like they were nothing.”
A short pause.
“Gave the rest of us real hell.”
A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
“Where the hell does she pull that kind of strength from?”
The shorter one didn’t answer immediately.
Instead—his eyes moved over me.
Slow. Appraising.
Wrong.
My stomach turned cold.
“I wish I could fuck her bloody before the doctor gets here...”
The words dropped into the room like something rotten.
My entire body went still. My breath caught.
Cold terror spread through my chest, sharp and suffocating, locking my lungs in place.
I stared at him through the haze of pain and exhaustion, my vision blurring at the edges but my mind forcing itself to stay sharp, to stay present—because if I let it slip even for a second, I knew what would happen.
“That’s the boss’s wife,” the taller man said flatly from a few feet away, his tone laced with caution.
The shorter one scoffed, a rough, humorless sound that bounced off the sterile walls.
“You call this bitch a wife?” he shot back, his voice edged with crude amusement.
“She’s about to die on that table. What the fuck does she have left to lose?”
My chest tightened at his words, anger flaring hot and sharp, cutting through the fear just enough to keep me grounded.
He stepped closer.
Too close.
I could smell him now—sweat, antiseptic, and something metallic like blood that hadn’t been washed off properly.
His fingers flexed at his sides, restless, predatory, as his gaze dragged over me.
Slow.
