Page 44 of Bleed with Me

“I’ll add it to my kidnapping protocol,” I replied lightly, patting her shoulder. “Step one: get abducted. Step two: send Melody a selfie with my captors.”

She smiled, but the tightness around her eyes didn’t disappear entirely. Behind her, the OR board glowed with cases. Appendectomy at ten, splenectomy at twelve, two cases in the ER waiting for a consult.

I scrubbed in, took histories, ordered imaging, and explained procedures. I planned a complex reconstruction, dictated notes, and reviewed labs. I let the rhythm of work take over, the precise focus of trauma surgery pushing everything else into a dark corner and nailing the door shut.

For a while, it worked.

For a while, my thoughts didn’t drift to the image of a white mask and brown eyes glowing behind it.

For a while.

Because every second my hands went still, my mind sprinted back to my office, to the fact that she vanished from the seventh floor and there was no security footage of her and no broken body under my balcony.

Logic offered me one small mercy in my own personal hell. She hadn’t died, but what happened to her, I had no idea.

You have her number, the demon voice echoed in my mind. Text her!

“Absolutely not,” I hissed at my reflection in the mirror while scrubbing my hands. I drew the line at begging my kidnapper for reassurance.

Around noon, my stomach finally overruled my martyr complex, and I decided to use the break for a quick lunch. The cafeteria smelled like overcooked vegetables and frustration. I sat at a corner table with a tray of something that pretended to be chicken and rice, scrolling absentmindedly through CT scans on my tablet, half lost in planning tomorrow’s procedures.

I just stabbed the chicken with my fork when my phone buzzed on the tray. My eyes snapped to the screen, reading the two words. Unknown number. My heart missed a painful beat before hitting like a sledgehammer against my ribcage.

Unknown number: Sleep well last night? Must be easy when you don’t know whether your wife is dead or alive.

I stared at the text, an angry twist of relief annoying me to the bones. My fingers hovered for a long moment. The temptation to ask where she was and whether she was hurt pressed on me like a physical weight. But instead, I typed:

Dorian: No more games. Name and face, or silence.

I hit send before I could soften it. Three dots appeared almost instantly.

Unknown number: You didn’t seem to mind games when I had you chained to a bed, handsome. Double standards much?

My cock decided this was an excellent moment to remember that encounter in high definition. I ignored it like a professional.

Dorian: Different rules now. You want to keep texting your husband? Stop hiding from him.

There was a brief pause. I could imagine her clearly, probably sprawled on a bed, frowning at her phone.

Unknown number: You just want to see if I’m as pretty as you imagine 😈

I put the phone face down on the tray, picked up my fork, and attacked the sad chicken. I didn’t know what I expected her to say. She wouldn’t just show me her face and tell me her name. So even when ignoring her felt like trying to ignore a fire alarm by humming louder, I did it anyway because if I let her drag me back into her crazy little orbit again, I might never climb out.

Three hours later, I was wrist-deep in a man who had lost an argument with a kitchen mixer.

“So,” I said, guiding the needle through torn skin, “you thought it was a good idea to put your hand into spinning blades.”

“The dough got stuck,” he muttered, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “My wife said she will let natural selection finish the job next time.”

“Please tell her I fully support her,” I replied, thinking that maybe if most of the populace used their brains properly, I would’ve been unemployed. “Next time, use a spatula instead of your fingers. It is less attached to your body.”

The nurse snorted behind her mask. I tied off the last stitch, cut the thread, stripped my gloves, tossed them into the bin, and walked out of the room, stretching my shoulders. The familiar satisfaction of bringing order back to torn tissue buzzed in my nerves, but it lasted only for a moment.

“Dorian.”

Zyon’s voice slid into the corridor like freezing air. I glanced toward the entrance, quietly releasing a deep breath. I knew he would show up or call me to meet him. I just hoped it would be later rather than sooner.

My older-by-one-hour brother stood on the threshold of the trauma area in a tailored charcoal suit, his perfect hair and expression carved from stone. The entire atmosphere shifted around him. Conversations softened, movements slowed, and even the machines seemed to beep more carefully, as if the hospital itself understood that the most dangerous man in the city had just stepped inside.