Chapter 8
The harsh lights of the hallway make my eyes ache as I finish stitching up one of Blackwood's men—a burly enforcer named Damon who took a gunshot wound to the forearm during what he vaguely described as a "business disagreement."
"You're getting better at this," he says, examining my handiwork with an appreciative eye. "Barely gonna scar."
I tie off the last suture, snipping the thread with practiced precision. "That's the idea. Though something tells me you're not exactly avoiding situations where you might get stabbed."
He grins, unrepentant. "Occupational hazard."
"Keep it clean, change the dressing daily, and come back in a week to get the stitches removed." I peel off my gloves, tossing them in the bin. "And maybe consider a career change."
"Where's the fun in that?" He slides off the examination table, rolling down his sleeve over the fresh bandage. "Thanks, Doc."
The title still feels strange—I'm not a doctor yet, just a glorified medic for criminals—but I don't correct him. In this world, titles are earned through competence, not credentials.
I finish my notes as Damon leaves, documenting the procedure in the meticulous records Blackwood insists I keep. Everything by the book, even when the book itself is soaked in blood.
My phone buzzes in my pocket—a text from Ian.
Finished early. Coming to get you. 20 minutes.
A flutter of anticipation ripples through me.
It's been three weeks since that night in his office, three weeks of living together in his apartment, three weeks of falling into a rhythm that feels dangerously close to happiness.
We still haven't put a name to what we are, what we're doing.
But every night I fall asleep in his arms, and every morning I wake to find him watching me with an expression that makes my chest ache.
I pack up my supplies, wiping down the small examination room Blackwood has set aside for me in the back of Rhapsody. It's a far cry from a sterile hospital, but I've made it work—organized my tools and medicines with the same precision I once applied to my dancing routine.
The irony isn't lost on me. I came to Rhapsody to strip, to use my body as a means to an end. Now I use my hands to heal instead of seduce, though the pay is considerably better.
I finish cleaning and head upstairs to the main club. It's early evening, the dancers just starting to arrive for their shifts. I spot Saffron by the bar, already in costume, sipping what looks like cranberry juice while scrolling through her phone.
She looks up as I approach, her face breaking into a genuine smile. "Well, if it isn't Dr. Young. Slumming it with us commoners tonight?"
I roll my eyes, sliding onto the stool beside her. "Not a doctor yet."
"But you will be." She nudges my shoulder with hers. "Don't think I haven't noticed those study guides you're always buried in during breaks."
I've been studying for the MCAT in every spare moment, determined to apply to medical school for the next cycle. It feels like chasing a mirage sometimes—the dream I've been running toward for so long, always just out of reach.
"We'll see," I say noncommittally. "How's Jasmine?"
Saffron's face softens at the mention of her daughter. "Growing too fast. Already talking about kindergarten like she's heading off to college."
"She's lucky to have you," I say, meaning it. Saffron works harder than anyone I know, all for the little girl who waits for her at home.
"Damn straight." She finishes her drink, setting the glass down with a decisive clink. "Gotta go get ready. Blackwood's bringing in some big spenders tonight."
I watch her sashay toward the dressing rooms, her confidence a tangible thing. There was a time when I envied that confidence, tried to emulate it on stage. Now I realize it was never about the dancing—it was about owning her choices, refusing to apologize for doing what needed to be done.
The back door opens, and Ian steps in, his eyes immediately finding mine across the room.
Something warm unfurls in my chest at the sight of him—tall and solid in his customary black suit, his face serious until he sees me.
Then his expression shifts, softening in a way few people ever get to witness.
I slide off the stool and meet him halfway, conscious of the eyes tracking our movement. Our relationship isn't a secret, but we're both private people, uncomfortable with public displays.
"Ready?" he asks, his hand coming to rest at the small of my back—possessive but not controlling, a touch I've come to crave.
"Yeah. Just let me grab my bag from downstairs."
He nods, falling into step beside me as we head back to the examination room. "How was your day?"
"Three stitching jobs, one dislocated shoulder, and a concerning case of what might be pneumonia that I referred to an actual doctor." I grab my bag from under the desk, slinging it over my shoulder. "Yours?"
"Meetings with Blackwood. Security protocols for a new business venture." His tone is neutral, but I catch the slight tension in his jaw. Whatever this new venture is, it's not entirely legal.
I don't ask for details. We've established boundaries—he doesn't tell me anything that might compromise my future medical career, and I don't judge him for the choices he's made. It's an imperfect system, built on selective blindness and carefully maintained ignorance, but it works for us. For now.
The drive to his—our—apartment is quiet, comfortable.
The evening traffic crawls along the city streets, but Ian navigates with practiced ease, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my thigh.
The casual intimacy of it still startles me sometimes—how easily we've fallen into these domestic patterns, how natural it feels to share space with him.
His apartment is in one of those renovated industrial buildings—all exposed brick and massive windows, the kind of place I could never have afforded on my own.
The first time he brought me here, I'd been intimidated by the sleek, minimalist design, the expensive furniture that looked barely used.
But over the weeks, I've left my mark—medical textbooks stacked on the coffee table, my favorite throw blanket draped over his leather couch, a plant I insisted on buying for the kitchen windowsill.
"You hungry?" he asks as we step inside, shrugging off his jacket and loosening his tie.
"Starving. But I need a shower first." The antiseptic smell of the examination room clings to my skin, a reminder of the day's work.
He nods, already moving toward the kitchen. "I'll start dinner."
I pause in the doorway, watching him roll up his sleeves, revealing forearms corded with muscle and marked with scars. The domesticity of the moment strikes me—this dangerous man making dinner while I shower, the easy rhythm we've established in such a short time.
"What?" he asks, catching me staring.
"Nothing," I say, but the word comes out soft, almost tender. "Just... this. Us."
Something flickers in his eyes—vulnerability, uncertainty, emotions he's still learning to express. "Is that a problem?"
"No." I shake my head, smiling slightly. "The opposite, actually."
I don't wait for his response, turning instead toward the bathroom.
Under the hot spray of the shower, I let myself think about the trajectory my life has taken—from struggling pre-med student to stripper to.
.. whatever I am now. Blackwood's personal medic.
Ian's lover. A woman caught between worlds, still figuring out where she belongs.
When I emerge, wrapped in one of Ian's shirts that falls to mid-thigh, the apartment smells like garlic and tomatoes. I follow the scent to the kitchen, where Ian stands at the stove, stirring something that looks suspiciously like actual homemade sauce.
"I love that you like to cook," I say, leaning against the doorframe.
He glances over his shoulder, his eyes darkening as they take in my bare legs, the damp hair curling around my face. "There's a lot you don't know about me."
"Like what?" I move closer, peering into the pot. "What other hidden talents are you keeping from me?"
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I play the piano. Badly. I speak three languages. I can field strip a gun blindfolded."
"One of these things is not like the others," I tease, stealing a taste of the sauce with my finger. It's delicious—rich and complex, with a hint of heat. "Mmm. Definitely a hidden talent."
He catches my wrist before I can pull away, bringing my finger to his mouth and sucking the remaining sauce from it. The casual eroticism of the gesture sends heat pooling low in my belly.
"Dinner first," he says, releasing my wrist. "Then we can discuss my other talents."
We eat at the small table by the window, the city lights spread out below us like fallen stars.
The conversation flows easily between us—my patients, his meetings, the book I'm reading, the documentary he wants to watch.
Normal things, everyday things, as if we're just a regular couple sharing a meal instead of two broken people who found each other in the darkness.
After dinner, I check my email while Ian cleans up, a routine we've fallen into without discussion. My phone pings with a new message, and I open it absently, expecting another notification from one of my study apps.
Instead, I find myself staring at an official letterhead, the words blurring before my eyes.
Dear Ms. Young,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into the School of Medicine at...
I can't read the rest, my vision swimming with sudden tears. I make a sound—half laugh, half sob—that brings Ian immediately to my side.
"Claire? What is it?" His voice is sharp with concern, his hand warm on my shoulder.
I wordlessly hand him my phone, unable to form the words past the lump in my throat. He reads quickly, his expression shifting from worry to understanding to something like pride.
"You did it," he says softly, setting the phone down and pulling me to my feet. "You got in."
I nod, still struggling to process the reality of it. "I got in."
He wraps his arms around me, lifting me off the ground in a rare display of unrestrained emotion. I cling to him, burying my face in his neck as tears spill down my cheeks—tears of relief, of vindication, of pure, unadulterated joy.
"I knew you would," he murmurs against my hair. "Never doubted it for a second."
When he sets me down, his hands come up to frame my face, thumbs gently wiping away my tears. The tenderness in his touch undoes me all over again.
"I couldn't have done it without you," I say, leaning into his touch. "Without the job, the apartment, the time to study..."
"Bullshit." His voice is firm, brooking no argument. "You did this, Claire. All of it. You're the one who never gave up, who kept fighting when anyone else would have broken."
The conviction in his voice makes fresh tears spring to my eyes. "I don't know what happens now," I admit. "Medical school is... it's going to consume my life for the next four years."
"So we'll make it work." He says it simply, as if the solution is obvious. "You'll study. I'll make sure you eat and sleep occasionally. Blackwood will understand."
"And us?" I ask, the question that's been hovering unspoken between us for weeks finally finding voice. "What happens to us?"
Something shifts in his expression—the guarded look he usually wears falling away to reveal a vulnerability that steals my breath. "What do you want to happen?"
It's a loaded question, one that demands honesty I'm not sure I'm ready to give. But looking up at him—this man who has seen me at my worst and still looks at me like I'm something precious—I find I can't be anything but truthful.
"I want this," I say softly. "Us. I want to come home to you after class, to fall asleep beside you, to make something real together. I know it won't be easy, with my schedule and your... job. But I want to try."
The tension leaves his shoulders, a smile—rare and genuine—curving his lips. "That's what I want too."
He leans down, capturing my mouth in a kiss that's gentle at first, then deepens into something more urgent. His hands slide down my sides, gripping my hips and pulling me against him. I can feel him hardening against my stomach, his desire a tangible thing between us.
"We should celebrate," he murmurs against my lips, his hands already working their way under my shirt.
"I thought you'd never ask," I breathe, arching into his touch as his fingers find bare skin.
He lifts me easily, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me to the bedroom.