CHAPTER 1 #2
With a final, wet suction sound, the bullet comes free. I pull it out and drop it heavily into the metal tray. The clink is loud, final, and triumphant. I stare at the bloody, misshapen piece of lead for a split second before reaching blindly for the irrigation syringe.
"The bullet is out," I say, flooding the wound with saline.
"Keep going," Damon breathes heavily, his chest shining with sweat. "Don't stop until I'm closed."
I begin the suturing. My hands move with a rapid, rhythmic grace, the curved needle flashing under the halogen light as I repair the damaged liver capsule and then begin stitching the thick muscle layers.
I am fast, efficient, and lethal in my precision.
I pull the thread taut, using my teeth to tighten a stubborn knot before quickly snipping the end with my scissors.
"You're going to have a hell of a scar," I say, entirely focused on the closure.
"I have plenty. One more won't hurt."
As I lean over his torso to stitch the dermal layer, Damon’s proximity becomes overwhelming.
I can feel the intense, radiating heat of his body.
I hear the rough rasp of his lungs. His breath is warm and heavy against my cheek, and for a twisted, unhinged moment, the sheer danger radiating off him feels strangely like intimacy.
A drop of my own sweat rolls down my forehead and falls directly onto his scarred chest. I quickly wipe it away with a piece of rough gauze.
"You're close enough to smell the fear on me," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave.
"You smell like antiseptic and steel," I reply, pulling the final stitch tight. "I like it."
I tie off the suture and slap a heavy pressure dressing over the angry red line.
I step back from the table, my shoulders instantly slumping as the massive weight of the last hour finally crashes into me.
The sudden coolness of the room hits my sweat-drenched skin as I step away from the surgical lamp.
My lower back throbs. I am covered in his blood, my scrubs damp and clinging heavily to my skin.
I drop my chin to my chest and take a long, ragged breath. I survived. Briggs didn't, but I did.
"Done. You're stable," I say, my voice flat.
Damon watches me. "Are you?"
I peel off my bloody gloves, the latex snapping aggressively as I throw them into the red biohazard bin in the corner.
I rub my bare wrists where the cuffs were tight, leaving red rings on my pale skin.
I look at Damon, waiting for the Glock to be lowered.
Waiting for him to get up and leave my wrecked clinic.
"Get your things and go," I tell him, gesturing to the door.
"I'm not going anywhere yet," he replies smoothly.
He pushes himself up on his elbows. He winces, the muscles in his jaw ticking, but his dark eyes stay locked directly on me.
He looks at the surgical tray, at the perfectly extracted bullet sitting in a pool of iodine, and then back to my steady, bare hands.
The air shifts. He’s no longer looking at a doctor.
He’s looking at an asset. He touches the thick bandage on his side with a bloody thumb, assessing the work.
"You have steady hands for someone who works in a hole like this," he says.
"It's not about the room, it's about the patient," I snap back, my irritation overriding my exhaustion. Something is wrong. The vibe is entirely off. He should be ordering his men out.
Damon turns his head slightly and gives a barely perceptible nod to the lead guard. His voice is a low, commanding growl that leaves absolutely no room for argument. "She’s good. Fast. Efficient."
The guard with the scarred throat nods back, a sickening grin spreading across his face as his hand moves directly to his tactical belt. I hear the distinct, heavy clink of industrial zip-ties.
"Boss?" the guard asks, confirming the unspoken order.
"She's too good to leave in a basement," Damon says coldly.
Damon stands up from the table. His massive frame instantly casts a dark shadow over me, eclipsing the surgical lamp.
He doesn't bother lowering the Glock; he just hands it casually to the guy next to him.
He wipes a smudge of his own blood from his heavy jaw with the back of his hand, looking down at me with a terrifying, possessive glint that makes my stomach drop into my boots.
"Bag her," he says simply.
"Wait, what? No! You said if you lived—" I start backing up, my boots slipping on the bloody tile.
"I lied," Damon cuts me off, his expression completely blank. "I need a surgeon. And I think I've found mine."
I bolt for the back exit. My legs feel like lead, but survival instinct kicks in hard.
I don't make it two steps. The guard with the scarred throat is unnaturally fast. His massive hand wraps around my bicep like an iron vice, his grip bruising the muscle instantly.
He spins me around with brutal force, shoving me hard backward.
My spine slams into the edge of the operating table.
I grab a heavy stainless steel surgical tray from the counter to use as a shield, but another guard steps in and knocks it violently from my hands.
Instruments scatter across the floor in a chaotic clatter of metal.
"Let go of me, you bastard!" I scream, thrashing against the grip.
"Easy, doctor," the guard laughs, pinning my arms behind my back. "Don't make us hurt the hands."
A thick, heavy black hood is suddenly yanked down over my head, instantly plunging my world into suffocating, dusty darkness.
The rough fabric scrapes aggressively against my nose and mouth, tasting like exhaust and unwashed canvas.
I feel the sharp, vicious bite of thick plastic zip-ties ratcheting tight around my wrists, locking my arms securely behind me.
"Damon! You can't do this!" I shout, my voice muffled and pathetic against the thick canvas.
"I just did," his voice drifts back to me, calm and detached. "Welcome to the syndicate, Margarita."
The heavy, rhythmic thud of his boots walks away toward the exit. A massive shoulder slams into my gut, lifting me off the ground like a sack of dead weight. The blood on my scrubs sticks to my skin. The sharp edge of the zip-tie cuts into my wrist. I’m not a doctor anymore. I’m just property.