Chapter 10
KANE
The treatment room was small and sterile, smelling like antiseptic and stale air.
The woman who entered wore scrubs and an expression that suggested she'd seen everything twice and wasn't impressed either time. Middle-aged. Competent hands. Cold eyes.
She gestured for me to sit.
I sat.
She peeled back the makeshift bandage, studying the wound with clinical detachment.
"This will need three stitches."
"Fine."
She turned to prepare her instruments. Needle. Thread. Gauze.
No syringe.
I waited.
She cleaned the wound. Then, she picked up the needle.
"Wait. No anesthetic?"
She looked at me like I'd asked for champagne. "You want local?"
"Usually helps."
"This is France. We do not coddle."
Then she leaned in and started stitching.
The first pierce was sharp and immediate. Pain radiated through my cheek. I kept my face still, breathing slowly through my nose.
She worked methodically, drawing the thread through with small, deliberate movements. Each pull felt like fire dragging across skin.
And she was smiling.
Not obviously. Just the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth.
Sadist.
I focused on the wall behind her, letting the pain become background noise. I'd had worse. Knife wounds stitched in safe houses with vodka. Broken ribs taped up in the field.
This was nothing.
Still.
The pleasure I'd felt for Paris earlier was wearing thin.
Until I thought about the girl in the waiting room.
American. Manhattan. Which made sense—she had that polished, careful look of someone who'd grown up around money and expectations. Put-together without trying too hard.
And beautiful.
Not the loud kind. The kind that didn't announce itself. Soft curves under practical clothes. Blonde hair that caught light. Sad eyes that suggested grief, recent and raw.
But she'd stood up for me, anyway.
That was the part I couldn't stop turning over.
She didn't know me. Had no reason to care. But she'd stepped in without hesitation.
Who does that?
I could've mentioned the fat men myself. Could've demanded the doctor. Could've made the receptionist's life uncomfortable.
But she'd beaten me to it.
Who the hell beats Kane Black to the punch?
The stitching sadist tugged the thread tight. My jaw clenched.
She noticed. Smiled wider.
"Almost finished," she said sweetly.
Another pull. Another flash of pain.
I thought about the girl again—the way she'd looked at me when our eyes met.
Heat.
I'd seen it clearly. The kind of recognition that bypassed conversation and went straight to instinct.
And I'd felt it back.
Which was unusual.
I didn't do attraction like that. Not the kind that made you notice someone and immediately start calculating. I did control. Discipline. Detachment.
But sitting there with her two seats away, I'd felt something shift.
Want.
Uncomplicated and immediate.
Dangerous.
The sadist tied off the final stitch and stepped back.
"Done." She dabbed at the wound, wiping away blood, then handed me a small mirror.
I looked.
Three neat stitches. Perfectly aligned. Almost elegant.
I raised an eyebrow. "I never would've taken a torturer for an artist."
To my surprise, she grinned—genuine and transforming.
"You must be new to Paris."
Then she left.
I actually laughed.
Maybe Paris wasn't completely unbearable.
But I stopped laughing the moment I stepped back into the waiting room.
The American girl stood at the reception desk, papers spread across the counter, posture rigid with frustration. The receptionist sat behind the desk, arms crossed, smug. And standing beside her was a doctor.
Their voices were low but heated.
"I have explained this already. The information you are requesting requires formal authorization."
"I have authorization. These are consular documents. Signed and notarized."
"Yes, but—"
"But what? What more do you need?"
The receptionist cut in. "Madame, you must understand—"
I should let it go.
Walk past. Leave.
But I believed in paying debts.
Good and bad.
And the American girl had stepped in for me without hesitation.
Plus, I really wanted to see the look on the doctor's face.
I walked up to the counter.
The doctor noticed me first.
"Can I help you?"
The receptionist answered first. "You should pay your bill and leave."
The doctor was more tactful. "Monsieur, if you could wait—"
The American girl didn't say anything.
But the look in her eyes said everything.
She needed help.
I'd pieced together enough. She was trying to get information about the file on the counter. Something personal. Something the doctor didn't want to release.
I glanced down at the file, then back up.
And grinned.
"The fat men were asking about you."
The doctor's face went pale.
Bingo.
He was in their debt. Had to be.
Time to press.
"I could put in a good word with them. If you'd be so kind as to help ..." I paused, glancing at Miss Manhattan.
She caught on immediately. "Ella."
I smiled. "Be so kind as to help Ella. Otherwise, I'll have to mention that you made one of their fighters wait outside your clinic for forty-five minutes to get stitches. When they were the ones who sent me here."
Silence.
The doctor's jaw worked. His eyes darted between us, calculating.
The receptionist started to say something, but he waved her off sharply.
"That won't be necessary. Of course. I will help Mademoiselle Rousseau."
He turned to the receptionist. "Leave us."
She looked furious but obeyed.
The doctor turned to me, hands raised. "Your bill is covered. No charge. And if Mademoiselle Rousseau will wait, I will make copies of everything she needs."
He gathered the papers and disappeared.
Ella turned to me, eyes wide.
"You didn't have to do that," she whispered.
"You didn't have to help me earlier, either. Call it square."
She looked at me for a long moment, and I couldn't read what she was thinking.
That was rare.
Usually my radar was strong. I could read people—threats, intentions, lies. Survival.
But with this woman, I couldn't get a clear signal.
Just static. And heat.
The urge to leave hit me suddenly.
"I should go."
Her hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my forearm.
The touch was light.
And it sent electricity straight through my brain.
What the fuck?
"I'd like to buy you coffee. And a pastry. If you're hungry."
I stared at her.
She held my gaze. Determined.
Say no. Walk away.
"I'm always hungry," I heard myself say.
She nodded, relief flickering across her face. "Good. That's settled."
We waited.
The silence stretched, charged.
The doctor returned, holding a thin stack of papers. He handed them to Ella with careful deference.
"Everything you requested. She was taken to the hospital after she was declared deceased here. There was nothing more we could do. But there is a name—the man you asked about before. It is in the file."
Ella took the papers without a word.
Her hands trembled.
She flipped through quickly, then stopped on one. Her breath caught.
I watched her face shift—grief, confusion, something sharper underneath.
Then she turned on her heel and marched toward the door, papers clutched to her chest.
She threw me a look over her shoulder.
Are you coming?
Of course, I was.
Maybe Paris wouldn't be so bad after all.