CHAPTER 3 #2
I unwrapped my hands, panting heavily. Resting in my palm was a jagged, heavy piece of the support bracket. Four inches of crude, sharp, rusted steel. It was weighted perfectly at the base, tapering to a vicious point at the end.
"Now we're even," I whispered, holding it up to the buzzing blue light.
I pressed the tip of the shard against the pad of my thumb, applying just a fraction of pressure. A tiny, perfect bead of dark blood welled up instantly. Sharp enough to pierce skin. Sharp enough to pierce an artery if I hit the right spot on a neck.
"It's not a scalpel, but it'll do." The sheer weight of the weapon in my hand changed my entire posture. The crushing victimhood evaporated. I wasn't just a kidnapped doctor anymore. "Let him come back now."
A heavy, mechanical clack echoed through the room.
The outer deadbolt.
My stomach dropped. I wasn't ready. The sound of heavy, rhythmic footsteps booted off the stone floor in the corridor. Cold sweat instantly drenched my spine.
"Too soon," I gasped. I whipped my head around. The bed frame was noticeably bent, the mattress skewed. "Hide it. Hide it now."
I scrambled off the floor, throwing myself at the bed. I shoved the thin mattress over the broken frame, yanking the ragged blanket down to cover the missing bracket, my movements frantic, sloppy, and desperate. I could hear the secondary locks disengaging on the other side of the iron door.
"Back against the wall. Go!" I ordered myself.
I spun around and backed myself into the furthest corner of the room just as the door began to grind open.
I hastily shoved the metal shard into the waistband of my scrub pants, right at the small of my back, adjusting my oversized jacket to cover the bulk.
The jagged edge immediately bit into the soft skin above my tailbone, a sharp, grounding pain.
Damon filled the entrance.
He didn't just walk into the room; he consumed it.
His presence sucked the oxygen out of the air in a single second.
He was towering, broad-shouldered, and completely immovable.
He had changed out of his bloody clothes from the shootout.
He was wearing a bespoke black button-down, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, exposing thick forearms roped with veins.
He looked immaculate, which only made me hate him more.
The faint smell of gun oil, expensive scotch, and the coppery tang of the fresh stitches I put in him cut right through the sterile concrete smell of the room.
He didn't say a word. He just stood in the doorway, his cold, dead eyes locking onto mine.
"You look like you've been busy, Margarita," he said. His voice was a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated against the walls.
I huddled my shoulders forward, lowering my chin and averting my eyes. I needed to play the part. I needed to look broken. I stared at his heavy, polished black combat boots, trying to force a tremble into my hands.
"You're shaking. Why are you shaking?" he asked, stepping slowly over the threshold. The iron door slammed shut behind him on an automatic hinge, the boom making me flinch legitimately.
"Don't tell me you're already breaking." He began a slow, predatory circle of the room. He walked with the heavy, calculated grace of an apex predator. Every step creaked the thick leather of the tactical shoulder holster he was wearing over his shirt.
I pressed my spine harder against the wall, the shard digging deeper into my flesh to keep me focused.
"Is this cage to your liking?" he asked, dragging a scarred knuckle along the edge of the concrete wall as he walked past me.
"I’ve spent a lot of money making sure things don't get out of this room. "
He stopped directly in front of me, his polished boots halting mere inches from my bare toes. The floor-to-ceiling shadow he cast completely swallowed me.
"Look at me when I'm speaking to you."
I kept my eyes on the floor, clamping my jaw shut. I am not your dog, you psycho.
Suddenly, Damon leaned in. His massive hand shot out, slamming flat against the concrete wall right next to my head with a thunderous crack.
I gasped, freezing in place. He was so close I could feel the heat radiating off his chest through his black shirt.
His face was inches from mine, his pupils so blown out they almost completely swallowed the dark irises.
"You’re a surgeon, Margarita," he murmured, his voice dropping to a lethal, intimate register. "You’re good with your hands."
He didn't touch me, but the sheer physical invasion of space was suffocating. It was a total, absolute assertion of dominance. He was daring me to move. Daring me to breathe.
"I wonder what else those hands can do besides dig for bullets," he said softly, the smell of scotch ghosting over my lips as he spoke.
My hand twitched toward the small of my back, my fingers brushing the cold steel of the shank hidden under my jacket.
It would take one second. One upward thrust into his carotid artery.
But the absolute stillness of his body told me the truth—he would snap my wrist before the blade ever cleared my waistband.
"I'm keeping you because you're useful," Damon stated, staring down at my trembling mouth, his expression completely blank. "Don't make me change my mind."
He held my gaze for three agonizing seconds, his massive frame trapping me against the wall, the sharp metal of the broken bed cutting into my spine like a secret promise.
Then, he simply turned and walked out, the iron door slamming shut, locking me back in the dark with nothing but a bleeding back and a piece of rusted steel.