Chapter 9
ELLA
Ididn’t sleep much.
Every time I drifted off, my mind dragged me back to the clinic—the fluorescent lights, the clipped voices, the way Rose’s final hours had been reduced to paperwork and procedure. To the knowledge that someone else had been with her when she died.
Someone I still didn’t know.
By the time dawn began filtering through the curtains, I was already awake, staring at the ceiling of Rose’s apartment, listening to the city begin again outside.
Today would be different.
It had to be.
I rolled out of bed with purpose, moving through the small apartment quietly, the echo of yesterday’s humiliation still prickling under my skin. I refused to cry again in that waiting room. Refused to let frustration or language barriers make me feel small.
If they wanted procedure, I would give them procedure.
I showered longer than usual, letting hot water loosen the knot between my shoulders. Steam fogged the mirror while I dried off, and when I caught my reflection—eyes still faintly swollen but determined—I felt something settle inside me.
Resolve. This time, chosen consciously.
I dressed carefully, not out of vanity but strategy.
Dark jeans that fit well without trying too hard.
Black ankle boots sturdy enough for walking but sleek enough to pass for put-together.
A soft gray sweater layered beneath my camel coat—neutral, polished, unremarkable.
My hair, usually unruly, I smoothed into loose waves that fell over my shoulders.
Minimal makeup. Enough to erase exhaustion without looking like effort.
Competent. Adult. In control.
Not the woman who’d sobbed in a waiting room twelve hours earlier.
I tied a scarf at my neck, grabbed my bag, and checked the folder of documents twice before leaving.
Cool morning air hit my face as I stepped outside. Paris felt subdued at this hour—delivery trucks unloading crates, cafés setting out chairs, commuters moving with sleepy purpose. The city belonged to workers now, not lovers or tourists.
I reached the clinic just before eight.
The same pale stone facade. Same understated plaque.
Only now, morning light exposed how ordinary it was. No tragedy in the architecture. No indication that lives ended here. Just another building doing its job.
I stood across the street for a moment, steadying myself.
You can do this.
I crossed and pushed inside.
The air still smelled faintly medicinal. The lights hummed overhead. The entryway was empty except for a cleaning cart parked against the wall.
And behind the desk—
The same receptionist.
Her eyes flicked up, recognition immediate, followed by something between irritation and surprise.
“You came back,” she said flatly.
“Good morning,” I replied evenly, stepping forward. “I’d like to speak with someone regarding Rose Rousseau. I’ve brought the necessary documents.”
I placed my folder neatly on the counter.
Her gaze shifted to the papers, then back to me. The faintest hesitation.
I’d come prepared.
She sighed but took the folder, flipping through passports, authorization letters, consular forms.
“Sit,” she said, tone clipped but lacking last night’s contempt. “I will inform administration.”
Progress.
I turned toward the waiting chairs—
—and froze.
He sat two seats down.
I hadn’t noticed him when I walked in. He was leaning forward slightly, elbows on knees, one hand pressing a folded towel against his face. Dark hair. Broad shoulders filling out a worn black T-shirt beneath a leather jacket.
Wow.
Something about him felt … different.
Heavier.
Like the air bent around him.
He lifted his head at the sound of my footsteps.
And for a second, the room narrowed.
God.
He was beautiful in the way dangerous things often were—cut features, strong jaw shadowed with stubble, mouth set in a neutral line that somehow suggested both control and violence. A thin bandage stretched along his cheekbone where dried blood had seeped through.
But it was his eyes that held me.
Cool. Assessing. A stillness there that didn’t belong in waiting rooms.
He looked at me once, fully, then away.
Like he’d already cataloged everything he needed to know.
Heat flickered low in my stomach, sudden and disorienting.
Not grief. Not nostalgia. Awareness. Like, my body was incredibly, intrinsically aware of him. There was no denying that fact. I was … affected.
I would climb that man like a tree, if given the chance.
Mmm.
I sat two seats away, pulse unexpectedly quick.
What is wrong with you?
Your sister died. You’re at a clinic. Pull yourself together.
But my body didn’t seem interested in logic.
I could feel him without looking. The quiet presence. The coiled stillness of someone who never truly relaxed.
Military, my brain supplied automatically.
I’d grown up in Manhattan. My editor covered politics; I’d spent enough time around veterans and security consultants to recognize the signs. Posture. Watchfulness. The way his attention tracked movement even when his head didn’t.
And the injury.
Not a car accident injury.
Probably a fight injury.
I risked another glance.
His knuckles were scraped raw.
Definitely a fight.
The receptionist’s voice cut across the room.
“You,” she snapped, pointing at him. “You cannot bleed in my waiting room.”
His gaze shifted lazily toward her. “I’m not bleeding.”
“You are bleeding. Look at your face.”
He shrugged. “I can’t look at my own face.”
My mouth twitched, despite myself.
The receptionist huffed. “You need appointment. You cannot just come.”
“I was told the clinic opens at eight.”
“Yes. For scheduled patients.”
He stared at her a beat too long, and tension crept into the room. Not loud. But charged.
Like the temperature dropped.
“I just need stitches,” he said calmly. Too calmly. The kind of calm that suggested the alternative wasn’t pleasant.
She rolled her eyes. “Everyone just needs something. Americans—”
Something pointed sparked in me.
Before I thought better of it, I stood.
“He’s already here,” I said, voice carrying across the small room. “You’re open. Why not help him?”
The receptionist blinked, surprised.
I surprised myself.
She looked between us. “It is not so simple.”
“It kind of is,” I said, shrugging lightly. “You heard the man. He’s injured. You’re a clinic.”
Silence.
Behind me, I felt his attention sharpen.
The receptionist sighed dramatically. “Fine. Sit. Wait.”
She disappeared through the back door.
I realized what I’d done and turned slowly.
He was watching me now.
I became acutely aware of myself under that gaze—of the careful, practical outfit I’d chosen that morning. Safe. Neutral. Invisible. It was perfect for bureaucracy, not for … this.
I suddenly wished I’d worn something else. Something softer. Tighter. The dress that skimmed my hips just right, or the sweater that dipped low enough to remind someone I had a body under all that composure. Something that showed I had curves worth noticing. Worth wanting.
Instead, I was wrapped in competence and grief, wishing he’d met a version of me that felt more alive. The embarrassment followed immediately, sharp and self-correcting. What was I doing, worrying about how I looked to a stranger in a clinic waiting room?
Up close, the effect of his gaze was worse. Or better. His eyes were darker than I’d thought. Brown almost to black. Focused. Sexy as fuck.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said.
And there it was.
American.
Not just American.
New York.
Brooklyn, specifically. The vowels flattened just enough. Consonants clipped. A rough edge softened by time but unmistakable.
A small, surprised smile escaped me. “You’re from Brooklyn.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “That obvious?”
“I grew up in Manhattan.” I sat again, suddenly self-conscious. “You don’t lose the accent completely.”
He studied me another second, then nodded once, like information filed away.
“Thanks,” he added, quieter.
“You’re welcome.”
Silence settled.
Comfortable, somehow.
Which made no sense.
Up close, the details kept registering. The way his shirt stretched across his chest when he shifted. The faint scent of him. The heat of him, even from a seat away.
My gaze drifted to his hands.
Large. Scarred. Controlled.
Hands that knew how to hurt people.
Arousal hit me again—low, undeniable, inappropriate as hell.
Jesus.
I crossed my legs, trying to ignore the warmth pooling in my stomach.
This man could snap you in half, my brain supplied.
And some traitorous part of me whispered, Yes.
He caught me looking and our eyes met again.
This time, something flickered there.
Recognition.
Of attraction.
And with it came something sharper—certainty. Sudden and undeniable.
I knew, in that instant, that I was interested. Not politely curious. Not mildly intrigued. Interested in the way that stripped excuses away. The kind of awareness that didn’t ask permission or wait for introductions.
Men joked about this all the time. I’d heard it my whole life—guys rating women, laughing, asking each other if they’d hit that, reducing attraction to something blunt and physical. I’d always rolled my eyes, dismissing it as crude shorthand for feelings they didn’t bother to examine.
But looking at this man with the bruised knuckles and the dangerous stillness, I suddenly understood the simplicity of it.
Because my reaction wasn’t polite or intellectual. It wasn’t about compatibility or shared interests or whether he’d make a good long-term partner.
It was pure, physical certainty.
If he walked over, took my hand, and pulled me out into the street, I’d follow. If he leaned down and kissed me, I wouldn’t move away. Somewhere private, somewhere reckless, somewhere entirely inappropriate—I didn’t even care.
The thought flashed hot and shocking through me.
I would absolutely fuck this man.
The realization hit so hard it almost made me dizzy. My body reacted before my brain could catch up—pulse quickening, warmth spreading low in my stomach, awareness sharpening until the room felt smaller, tighter.
And the most startling part?
I didn’t feel ashamed of it.
I felt awake.
My breath caught.
The back door swung open, breaking the moment.
“Mr. Black,” a nurse called. “Come.”
He stood in one fluid movement, towering for a second before slinging his jacket over his shoulder.
He paused, glancing back at me.
“Good luck,” he said.
I opened my mouth, not sure what I meant to say.
Nothing came out.
He disappeared through the door.
And the room felt emptier without him.
My heart was still beating too fast.
What the hell was that?
I stared at the closed hallway door, heat still humming under my skin.
This was ridiculous.
I’d come here for answers about my sister’s death, not to fixate on some stranger with bruised knuckles and a dangerous stare. Normal people didn’t sit in clinics plotting how to chase down injured men they’d exchanged a few sentences with.
I blew out a slow breath, leaning back in the hard plastic chair.
He’d just walk out. Get stitched up, leave, and disappear into Paris. I’d never see him again. He’d become one of those strange travel moments you told friends about later—Oh, I met this insanely hot guy in a clinic once—and that would be the end of it.
Except the thought of that ending felt wrong.
Too final.
I tried to reason with myself. You don’t even know him. He could be married. A criminal. Completely insane.
My brain supplied an image of his calm expression as the receptionist snapped at him, the way tension seemed to coil under his stillness, like violence lived just beneath the surface.
Okay. Possibly insane.
And yet.
I’d spent years making sensible choices. Hank had been sensible. My career decisions had been sensible. My entire life back in New York was built on being reasonable.
Rose had come here and chosen something else.
Maybe this—this reckless spark of interest—was part of what she’d found.
Maybe, just this once, I didn’t have to be cautious.
Decision settled into place before I fully acknowledged making it.
If he walked back through that door, I wasn’t going to let him vanish without at least trying.
At minimum, I could ask his first name.
At minimum.
And if fate had dropped a dangerously attractive Brooklyn military stranger into my path at the exact moment my life cracked open—
Well.
It felt stupid not to see where that led.