CHAPTER 2
DAMON
The alleyway behind her underground chop shop smelled like hot garbage and wet brick, vibrating with the muffled, rhythmic thud of the club's bass a block over.
My liver felt like someone had shoved a lit road flare into the organ and left it to burn, the fresh stitches screaming against the lining of my muscle with every goddamn breath.
I leaned heavy against the brick wall, watching my boys completely fuck up the simple task of putting a bag over one stubborn female.
Margarita was an absolute fucking nightmare, a whirlwind of sharp elbows and teeth snapping at anything within a three-foot radius.
She nearly took a chunk out of one of my veteran hitters, and it pissed me off.
Not because she was fighting back, but because these idiots were treating her like she was made of fucking glass.
I spit a thick glob of blood onto the wet pavement and wiped my mouth with my thumb, my eyes never leaving her.
She was a tiny thing compared to the massive walls of muscle trying to wrangle her, but her defiance took up all the goddamn oxygen in the alley.
"She’s a surgeon, Cole, not a porcelain doll.
Stop being careful," I barked, my voice sounding like gravel through a meat grinder.
"Watch the elbows! She’s trying to catch your temple.
" Cole ducked as her fist swung wild, a curse slipping through his teeth.
"Keep fighting, Doctor," I yelled over the idling engine of the transport.
"I want to see how much fire you've got left before I snuff it out. "
The irritation bubbled over into something hot and territorial.
They had no business putting their hands on her like that anyway.
I pushed off the wall, shoving past Cole with a rough shoulder, my massive hand clamping down directly around Margarita’s upper arm.
The suddenness of the grip ripped her momentum out from under her, forcing her to a dead halt.
The frantic, rabbit-fast beat of her pulse hammered right through the cheap fabric of her scrubs.
I pulled her flush against my side, completely dwarfing her height, leaning in close enough to feel the heat radiating off her damp skin and smell the sharp, clinical tang of antiseptic cutting through cheap soap.
My fingers dug into her bicep hard enough that I knew my knuckles were turning white, the heavy gold of my signet ring pressing a cold divot right into her skin.
Her eyes dilated to the size of quarters when she looked up at me—she was terrified, yeah, but it was that sharp, feral terror of a cornered animal realizing the trap just snapped shut on its leg.
"You’re done fighting for the night," I said, my grip unyielding.
She struggled against the hold, twisting her shoulder in a useless attempt to break my leverage.
"Easy, stray. You’ll only bruise yourself.
" She bared her teeth, refusing to make eye contact, staring holes into my chest instead as she yanked her arm again.
I jerked her an inch closer. "Look at me. I said, look at me."
I hauled her deadass into the back of the armored transport.
The interior was a vibrating cage of reinforced steel and harsh red emergency lighting that made the whole space look like a goddamn slaughterhouse.
I tossed her onto the floorboards, not giving a shit about being gentle.
Cole slammed the heavy doors shut behind us, and the world instantly shrank to the size of this rumbling metal box.
The smell of diesel fumes and raw gun oil choked the air, backed by the muffled sound of rain hitting the roof like handfuls of gravel.
I slumped onto the steel bench opposite her, clutching my stitched side as the pain spiked hard enough to make my vision swim.
She was on her ass, zip-tied and radiating pure, unadulterated fury.
I adjusted my shoulder holster, the leather creaking loudly in the quiet of the van, the noise pulling her hateful glare back to me.
The bullet she just dug out of my gut was probably still lying in a pool of my own blood on her clinic floor, but the ghost of it burned like acid.
I owed her my life, and in my world, you pay those kinds of debts by putting a collar on the person you owe so nobody else can take them from you.
"Don't bother with the ties. They're military grade," I told her as she wrenched her wrists back and forth, the plastic biting into her pale skin.
"Sit up. I don't like looking down at you.
" She spat a curse at me, staying exactly where she was.
"You saved my life, Margarita. This is me making sure you don't regret it by dying in the street. "
The transport violently swerved to the left.
The screech of tires tore through the cabin right as the heavy clunk of gear shifting threw us sideways.
Margarita slid hard across the floorboards, her shoulder hitting a wooden weapons crate with a dull thud.
I didn't reach out to help her up. I just sat there and watched her struggle to find her footing with her hands bound behind her back, her combat boots trying to kick the door handle but only leaving black scuffs on the reinforced steel. It was total clown behavior thinking she could kick open a tactical lock, but I let her wear herself out. The driver’s voice suddenly crackled over the comms, static cutting through the flicker of the red interior light as the power fluctuated.
"Boss, we’ve got company. Two bikes, rival colors.
They saw the extraction." My hand instantly dropped to my sidearm, thumbing the safety off.
Complete fucking amateur hour if my scouts let someone tail us.
A sudden spike of territorial rage hit my chest—not because I cared if she got a scratch on her, but because she was my asset now, and nobody touches my shit.
"Doctor, I’d suggest you get familiar with the floor," I warned, racking the slide of my gun.
"Cole, tell the scouts to intercept. I want these bastards off the road. "
A hail of automatic gunfire pinged against the exterior armor like heavy hail on a tin roof.
The van lurched again, dodging cross-traffic.
I lunged off the bench, ignoring the tearing sensation in my stitched liver, and threw my full goddamn weight over Margarita.
I pinned her flat to the vibrating floorboards, my heavy tactical vest acting as a Kevlar wall between her and any potential shrapnel trying to punch through the chassis.
I used one hand to brace my weight against the shaking floor and the other to shove her head down hard against the steel.
She thrashed under me, completely uncooperative, twisting her neck to get away from my grip.
My beard scratched rough against her ear as I buried my face in the crook of her neck to stay low, the smell of my own sweat and expensive scotch mixing with her panicked scent.
"Stay. The. Fuck. Down," I growled, my breath hot against her skin.
She kept squirming, her chest heaving under mine, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm directly against my ribs.
"Don't move or I’ll break your ribs myself.
" I felt how deceptively soft she was beneath all that rigid defiance, a dangerous goddamn realization that made me want to crush that softness until she was as hard as the concrete I was taking her to.
"Stop squirming. I'm the only thing keeping you from a bullet. "
The chase ended abruptly with a sickening, metallic crunch of a bike getting folded under our rear tires outside.
The transport smoothed out, cruising back at normal speed, but I didn't move.
I stayed draped over her for five seconds too long, my face still buried in her neck.
The sheer biological terror radiating off her fed something completely unhinged in my gut.
I liked the weight of her trapped under me.
It had zero to do with protecting her and everything to do with establishing absolute control.
Pissed off at my own lapse in discipline, I shoved myself up off the floor, pasting a mask of cold indifference over my face.
My hand lingered on her hip as I stood, my thumb brushing the coarse fabric of her scrubs one last goddamn time before I created space.
The sound of the engine drone returned to a steady hum, completely swallowing the heavy rasp of my breathing.
I looked down at her. She was shivering, a mix of pure adrenaline and shock wrecking her nervous system.
"They’re gone. You can breathe now," I said, holstering my weapon.
"You’re shaking, Doctor. I thought surgeons had ice in their veins.
" I nudged her boot with mine. "Get up. We’re almost there. "
We rolled into the cavernous, poured-concrete garage of my fortress.
The harsh, humming fluorescent tubes cast long, distorted shadows across the gray floor, smelling strongly of damp stone, ozone, and exhaust fumes.
I hauled her out of the back by the scruff of her oversized jacket before her boots even hit the ground.
The biting cold of the underground air hit us immediately.
She stumbled on the concrete. I caught her and steered her roughly toward the massive steel freight elevator at the far end.
She kept darting her eyes around, looking for exits that deadass didn't exist down here.
This place was built to be a tomb for the fuckers who crossed me and a vault for the assets I kept.
She was the latter. I used my chin to gesture to a perimeter guard holding an assault rifle.
He immediately snapped to attention, completely freezing in place as we passed.
Let her see exactly who runs this city. "Welcome to the rest of your life.
Try not to ruin the floors," I muttered, dragging her forward.
The guard went to speak, but I cut him off with a look.
"Clear the floor. I don't want anyone looking at her.
" She tried to drag her feet, testing my patience again.
I shoved her forward. "Keep your head down and keep walking. "
The elevator dumped us into the isolation corridor.
It was the throat of a concrete beast—windowless, unmarked steel doors, and completely sterile air.
I didn't even bother looking back to see if she was keeping up because my grip was still clamped tight around her arm, forcing her to match my long strides.
We reached the end of the hall. I pulled my black keycard from my vest and swiped it.
The lock disengaged with a heavy hydraulic hiss, sounding exactly like a guillotine blade dropping.
Margarita realized what this was. She panicked, digging the heels of her heavy combat boots into the floor to stop our momentum, a desperate, last-ditch effort to keep herself out of the cage.
It was pathetic. I simply leaned my weight forward, dragging her along the polished concrete effortlessly.
"This is for your own good," I told her, my voice dead flat.
"You're too valuable to leave in the open.
" She let out a frustrated noise through her teeth, thrashing against my grip.
"Don't bother screaming. These walls are three feet thick.
" I shoved the heavy steel door open, the hinges entirely silent. "I’ll be back when I’ve bled out enough of my own rage. "
I threw her inside. The room was a stark four-walled concrete cube.
Nothing but a metal slab bolted to the floor for a bed, a single drain in the center of the room, and a recessed, dim light in the ceiling.
The rough texture of the walls promised zero comfort.
Margarita spun around instantly, her face a pale, exhausted mask of pure fucking fury, her chest heaving as her breathing echoed frantically off the tight walls.
I stood in the threshold, letting my broad silhouette block the only light bleeding in from the hallway.
I just watched her for a second, my dead eyes tracking the rise and fall of her chest, soaking in the absolute hatred she was aiming at my head.
I wanted to own that hate just as much as I wanted to own her surgical skills.
I stepped over the threshold, closing the distance between us in two strides.
She flinched but held her ground. I reached out, and slowly, almost tenderly, tucked a stray, sweat-damp hair behind her ear.
My knuckles brushed her freezing cheek before I stepped back.
"Sleep, Doctor. You’ve had a busy night," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"There’s water in the tap. Use it." I backed out into the doorway, keeping my eyes locked on hers.
"You’re mine now. Best you learn what that means sooner rather than later. "
I slammed the heavy steel door in her face.
The sound was a final, brutal thud that vibrated straight through the soles of my boots.
I stood there in the empty hallway, listening to the automatic locks engage in sequence—one, two, three.
The adrenaline from the raid and the chase was finally draining out of my system, leaving behind a hollow, throbbing agony in my ribs where she had dug the bullet out.
For a brief second, I just leaned my forehead against the freezing cold steel of her door and let out a ragged breath.
My side was completely wrecked, hot blood soaking through the bandages and sticking to my shirt.
I reached into my pocket, fumbled out a cigarette, and just rolled it between my bloody fingers without bothering to light it.
The smell of gun oil and copper was heavy on my skin.
Cole stepped out of the elevator at the end of the hall, his boots echoing in the absolute silence.
"She’s in," I called out to him, pushing off the door.
"Double the guard on this wing." I walked toward him, ignoring the stabbing pain in my gut.
"Bring me a bottle of the 18-year. And a medical kit. I’m leaking again.
" I didn't look back at the cell. "Nobody goes in that room.
Not for any reason. If she breathes, I want to know about it.
" I pocketed the unlit cigarette and hit the elevator button.
The extraction was done. Time to stitch my own damn side up.