Chapter 5
Five
Kaden
Ifind Doc in the library, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, his face etched with a weary concern that borders on irritation.
Vinnie ‘Doc’ Costello is one of the few men I allow to show irritation in my presence.
He’s been stitching up my men—and me—for fifteen years.
He’s a disgraced surgeon who values my money and discretion over a medical license.
He’s seen my worst, and he knows how to keep his mouth shut.
“This better be good, Kaden,” he says, forgoing any titles. “You pulled me out of a very warm bed.”
“It’s not good,” I say, my voice flat and cold. The lack of emotion seems to alarm him more than any shouting would have. “She’s upstairs. In my room.”
Doc’s eyebrows shoot up. He knows me well enough to know that no woman has ever been granted access to my private quarters. He sets his glass down, his demeanor shifting from irritated to intensely focused. He picks up his medical bag. “Show me.”
I lead him up the stairs, the silence between us heavy with unspoken questions. He can feel the shift in the atmosphere of the house, the dangerous, volatile energy that has taken root.
When we enter the bedroom, the sight of Wynter lying pale and still on my bed stops him in his tracks. The firelight flickers over her, illuminating the ruined dress and the raw, angry scratches on her skin.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, moving toward the bed. “What happened?”
“Later,” I bite out. “Just fix her.”
He gives me a sharp look but turns his attention to Wynter. His professionalism takes over, his movements becoming efficient and precise. He pulls a pair of shears from his bag. “I need to get this dress off her. See what I’m dealing with.”
A possessive, irrational anger flares in my chest. The thought of him cutting away her clothes, of his clinical eyes seeing her body, is a violation.
“I’ll do it,” I growl.
Doc pauses, his gaze meeting mine. He sees the madness there, the raw, territorial instinct. He gives a slow, careful nod and steps back, affording me space.
I pull my knife, the one I keep for business, not for saving damsels. With a surgeon’s precision that feels like a mockery of Doc’s own skills, I slide the blade through the fabric of her bodice. I cut away the cage Evilin built around her, the material falling to the sides.
Wynter takes a deep, shuddering breath in her unconscious state, and for a moment, I feel a grim satisfaction. Then the full extent of the damage is revealed in the flickering firelight.
Doc lets out a low whistle. “This wasn’t from running through the woods.”
My jaw clenches so hard a sharp pain shoots through my molars.
Her milky skin is a canvas of cruelty. New bruises, ugly and purple, mar her ribs and stomach.
They overlap with the faint, yellowing ghosts of older injuries, a timeline of sustained abuse.
This was her life. A constant state of pain and fear, hidden away behind the walls of a mansion.
The fury that rises in me is a white-hot, silent inferno.
It’s a pure, unadulterated rage that demands a blood sacrifice.
Evilin Blanc will not just die. I will dismantle her, piece by piece.
I will make her feel a fraction of the pain she inflicted on this girl, and then I will erase her from the earth.
“Kaden.” Doc’s voice is a sharp anchor, pulling me back from the edge. “I need to work.”
I step back, my movements stiff, my hands clenched into fists at my sides.
I watch as he gets to work, my eyes tracking his every move.
He cleans the cuts with an antiseptic that must sting, but Wynter doesn’t stir.
He disinfects a needle and begins the meticulous work of stitching the deepest gash on her forearm.
I feel useless. A king in my own castle, a man who can command death with a single word, and I am powerless to do anything but stand here and watch another man tend to my woman’s wounds. The feeling is acid in my throat.
“She’s severely dehydrated and malnourished,” Doc mutters, more to himself than to me. “I’ll put her on an IV drip. But she’s strong. Her vitals are steady.” He continues his work, his brow furrowing as his fingers probe the area around the cut on her arm. “Hmm. That’s not right.”
“What?” I snap, my patience worn to a thread.
“There’s something under the skin here,” he says, his fingers palpating a small, hard lump. “Feels like a contraceptive implant. Looks like it was dislodged when she fell, probably what made this cut so much worse.” He glances up at me. “It’s likely damaged. I can’t guarantee it’s still effective.”
The world stops.
Contraceptive implant.
The words detonate in the silent room. The image of another man touching her, of her needing this kind of protection from someone else, is a spike of white-hot jealousy driven straight through my skull.
Who was he? Who dared to touch her before I did?
The need to find him, to hunt him down and tear him apart with my bare hands, is so overwhelming I can barely breathe.
Then, a second thought pushes through the red haze of my rage. A colder, more calculating thought. Damaged. Not effective.
The rage recedes, replaced by a twisted, possessive triumph. This isn’t a problem. This is an opportunity. A sign from whatever dark god watches over men like me. It is a gift.
“I can replace it, if you want,” Doc says cautiously, his eyes wary. He can sense the dangerous shift in my demeanor. “It’s a simple enough procedure.”
I look from his face to Wynter’s. To this perfect, broken angel that fate has delivered into my hands. She will fight me. She will try to run. I need to bind her to me, in a way that can never be undone. A way that goes beyond cages and locks. A biological imperative.
“No,” I say, my voice quiet, but carrying the weight of an unbreakable decree.
Doc looks at me, his eyes wide with a dawning, horrified understanding of what I’m implying.
“Remove it,” I order. The words hang in the air, cold and final as a death sentence. “I don’t want any foreign objects in her body.”
He stares at me, his mouth slightly agape. For a moment, I think he’s going to argue. I can see the flicker of his own buried morality, the ghost of the Hippocratic Oath he once took. I welcome the argument. I am itching for a fight, for a release for the violent energy coiling in my gut.
But he is a pragmatist. He knows who I am. He knows the lines that can’t be crossed. He gives a single, almost imperceptible nod and turns back to his medical bag, pulling out a sterile kit.
I watch as he administers a local anesthetic and makes a small, precise incision. A few moments later, he pulls the small, damaged rod from her arm and drops it with a clinical clink into a metal tray.
It’s done.
The last barrier between her and me, between her old life and the one I have planned for her, is gone. I will fill her with my blood, my name, and my seed. She will carry my child. She will be mine, irrevocably and forever.
“She’s been through more than just tonight,” Doc says quietly, as he bandages her arm. He gestures to the faded bruises that litter her stomach like forgotten constellations. “Whoever did this… they’ve been doing it for a long time.”
I look at the marks, each one a testament to Evilin’s cruelty. My cold resolve hardens into a vow, sworn in the silent, firelit room.
I will get my revenge. Evilin Blanc will not just die. She will suffer. She will pay for every mark, every tear, every moment of fear she inflicted upon my Wynter.
I will burn down her world, and she will know that I am the one holding the match.