Underneath, there’s a line of text, curled and foreign. The same kind of letters as the ones inked under his eye. Is thisRussian? On each side of the wolf are stars, eight-pointed and cleanly etched.
I have a bad feeling I just stitched up someone I was never supposed to meet.
Nope, hell no, this is too much. I need to call someone, the police or an ambulance. I don’t care what happens after because I should’ve done it the second he passed out.
What the hell was I thinking? Good job, Kelly, you absolute dumbass.
I start to get up, trying to ease his hand out of mine, but his grip clamps around my wrist.
I freeze with full-body panic and just one single conclusion: I’m going to die because I hesitated. I’m the biggest idiot on the goddamn planet.
He groans and forces himself upright, breathing hard like it hurts but still moving quickly. We’re face-to-face on the floor, barely a breath between us.
He’s the hottest man I’ve ever seen in my life. Which is not helpful and actually insane. Jesus Christ. I’m about to get murdered by someone I would definitely make out with in a bar if he wasn’t actively trying to kill me.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I try again. “Um. You. Uh.” Great start … I’m really nailing the survival speech.
“You passed out for a few minutes, and I stitched your wounds. You lost a lot of blood, and I had to cut your pants to reach the gash on your leg. You’re not going to bleed out if you stay still, but you need to move carefully, or the stitches might open again.”
He wraps his fingers around the gun and grabs a fistful of my scrubs with his other hand, yanking me in. The barrel presses hard against my temple while his eyes lock on mine, voice low and rough, pulled straight from whatever hell he just woke up in. “Get the fuck up.”
When I swallow and nod, he lets go of my scrubs. I get to my feet slowly, carefully, hands raised as I take a small step back. His eyes track me the whole time. He stands and the gun is already pointed at me again. “How long do I have?” His voice is rough, tight. “How long ago did you call them?”
“What? Who?”
He steps closer, grabs my scrubs again, and yanks me toward him. “Don’t play with me.” The gun hits my temple. “Fuck it. You’re done.”
“Wait. Wait, I didn’t call anyone. My phone is in the office. You can check my pockets.” I close my eyes, bracing myself.
Nothing happens.
I open one eye, then both, and he’s still staring at me.
“I didn’t call the cops if that’s what you think. I didn’t call anyone because I was too busy keeping you alive. You passed out, I stitched your wounds, cleaned up the blood. Your leg was hurt, and I had to cut your pants to get to it. Then you woke up.”
He doesn’t say anything, just watches me. I keep my mouth shut this time. He shoves me back and says something—I’m convinced it’s Russian—and wipes his forehead with the inside of his elbow.
“Give me your ID.”
“What?”
“Your. ID.”
I pat down my pockets, but they’re empty. “It’s in the office. Same place as my phone.”
“Take me.”
“Okay.” I lift my hands again and keep them up as I move past him. He doesn’t lower the gun. I just walk slow and take him through the clinic. When we reach the back office, I go to the drawer, pull out my wallet, find my ID card, and then grab my phone and unlock it. I hold them out without saying anything.
“You can check my phone. I wasn’t lying. I haven’t called anyone.”
He takes the ID, still pointing the gun at me. Stares at it for a second. Then he grabs the phone from my other hand and scrolls.
“Kelly Mackey.”
“Y-yes.”
He pockets my ID card. “I’m keeping this. If you breathe a word of this to anyone, you’re dead. Do you understand?”
