Chapter 20
COLLINS
Iawakened the next morning in my bed, caged beside Hayes, wrapped in his stifling body heat. My body is deliciously sore, but the realization of what we did last night hits me like a bus.
Fuck.
Not wanting to wake him, or have a really awkward conversation, I quickly showered with burning cheeks, and grabbed a clean set of scrubs. I effectively avoid the consequences of my night by running away to the hospital to start my clinicals early.
I don’t feel guilty for what we did—but it does complicate everything. Our relationship, this deal, Hell, my feelings.
Because I’ve always had a crush on Hayes. Who wouldn’t? Despite his arrogant attitude, he’s a good man, capable of intense moments of kindness, balanced with his violent streak. Does that mean he wants me? No.
I can still feel his breath on my neck as he fucked me with my toy.
Boundary? Crashed and burned.
I don’t know how to process this. What it means—for us, the deal, anything. As far as I know, it could have been a casual hookup for Hayes and nothing more. If so, great. I can do that. I’ve had plenty. But if it’s more?
Nope. Not thinking about it. I refuse to get my hopes up.
Instead, I throw myself into the morning rounds, documenting the other nurses and pitching in when I can. It’s tedious work, filing and documenting, but the nurses are kind and it keeps me from thinking of last night.
When we do the morbidity portion of the class, I’m in a delightfully spiteful mood, so I make Charlotte handle the corpse—another female mule—and then take off to my clinicals without a second glance.
It’s a long day, but this is what I want to do—be in the ER, treating patients, surging along with the demands and keeping my mind closed to everything else.
I’m the only one of my class in the ER rotation; they all did theirs earlier in the semester. It gives me a chance to be on my own—not effectively treating anyone since that isn’t allowed, but I can fix small things or talk a patient through a difficult procedure.
It’s easier to care for someone I don’t know. I can fake that. And, it helps assuage some of the guilt I carry from childhood. The only guilt I truly feel.
Cutting through curtains, I follow Dillon to the back. There’s triage, and a few banged up patients, but it’s quiet for the late afternoon. I know it’ll get worse as the day progresses, and my adrenaline spikes with anticipation.
“Collins,” Dillon says, snapping his fingers. Has he been talking?
Judging from the tilt of his lips, he’s annoyed. So most likely, yes, and I missed it.
“Sorry,” I reply, sheepishly. “It was a long night. What did you ask?”
“How your studies were coming.” He grabs a few clipboards, passing them to me for review. “I know this term can be a lot to balance for students. It’s the last push before you head into your residency, and then the extra lessons for the board exams. It can tire a student out.”
On top of rounds, lectures, and the usual lab courses, we also had the coursework to study for the boards. Boston University School of Medicine wanted us to pass, so we were required to sit through extra classes, going over board questions to prepare.
Luckily for me, I wasn’t worried about the test. Much. I did all the practice exams for years in high school with Pops drilling me after our impromptu dissection lessons.
Swallowing, I shake my head as the rogue memories try to drown me. The smell of formaldehyde still turns my stomach. But I can tell you what causes erythropoietin deficiency every time I smell it.
Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I nod. “It’s going.” Reading the charts, I scan the incoming cases—stomach pain, fevers, a stubbed toe. The broken arm of a child causes me to pause. “Can’t complain.”
“I mean, you could.” He smiles, white teeth bright and straight. “It’s normal. It’s a balancing act. I’m pretty sure they make all of us go through it, so we’re ready for the floor.”
I hum, scanning my senior resident as he keeps step with me. Sandy brown hair and hazel eyes, he’s lean and athletic. He’d fit right in at a country club. He dreams of the days he can have the perfect trophy wife. “Probably.”
Gesturing to the chart, I ask, “Has anyone seen this patient yet?”
“Not sure.” He doesn’t look at where I’m pointing, placing his clipboard back into the bin. “If you need help studying, I took the boards a few years ago.” Obviously.
“Uh-huh. I’m going to see him.”
Turning on my heel, my white sneakers squeak along the linoleum floors. Dillon follows at my elbow, tall height forcing him to duck under the scaffolding.
“I’m a good study partner,” he continues, darting through the running nurses. “We could get dinner before.”
“He’s ten.” I sidestep an ECG machine. Why is he talking about dinner? “A broken arm should be taken seriously.” Something in the back of my head tingles—this is important.
“I’m partial to Mexican food.”
“Do you see his nurse?” How could he think about dinner or—God forbid—a date right now, when there was a little boy with a broken arm?
We come up to bay seven, pulling the curtain away. Automatically, I know this is a beaten child.
The signs are clear. The sunken eyes, the bruise on his cheek, the mangled elbow. He flinches at the curtain whipping, freezing when he sees Dillon. A man beat him, maybe a father or father-figure, and he’s traumatized by it.
I saw the same signs in Sloane.
Guilt rises up my throat. I knew Pops was hitting her—and I kept my mouth shut. Hell, I tried to reason with Sloane, make her understand that he would stop if she would just play along.
Not like I didn’t try to stop him. I did once—and only once.
He grabbed my arm so tightly, then threw me into the wall.
I must have hit my head because I blinked and he was in my face, snarling, “If you interfere with this again, I’ll do worse to you and bring back those lessons.
I don’t take kindly to disobedience. Do you understand? ”
After that, I kept my head down. As guilt ridden as I was—am—I admired Sloane. She never backed down, never submitted. She was a flame battling against a raging storm and she never bowed to him.
I should have tried harder—taken those hits for her, consequences be damned. But I’m selfish and cruel. The lessons had just stopped, and I couldn’t go back to that.
Carefully, I step closer to the young boy, blocking his view of Dillon. Sitting down, I lower myself to seem smaller and smile. “I saw you hurt your arm.”
He nods slowly, licking his spilt lip. “I fell.”
“Doing what?”
His eyes turn guarded. “I just fell.”
Right. He’s too scared to say anything. Pushing him won’t help me.
“Did you come here with your parents?”
The young kid snorts. “I don’t have parents.” He glances once to Dillon and then me. “Can you hurry this up? I have to go.”
He’s already had surgery with a few pins holding the pieces together. He was put down here for a wrap. I could do it, but the proper procedure was to have a resident.
Gesturing to Dillon, I say, “He’ll get you settled. But we’re going to cut the shirt.”
He rolls his eyes at the idiocy and whips the shirt over his head, wincing as he goes. Once his arm is free, I see it. His branding.
On his shoulder blade is a crudely inked cross. It’s deep, too thick in some parts and too thin in others, and the lines are blown by a heavy hand. It’s not a proper tattoo, most likely done in the basement surrounded by hushed whispers and secrets.
It’s Bruno’s mark. All the girls he owns have the same tattoo at the club. It’s ownership—because those girls, this child, are only property to him.
Gently, I trace it and the boy freezes. I’ve seen this mark before, up close. I just can’t remember where.
It’s the mark Roman will put on me, if he gets me.
Gulping, I ask, “Do you have a tattoo?”
The boy doesn’t look at me. “Yes.”
“What’s it mean?”
He glances up, eyes full of pain. It twists my heart, breaks my composure, and my hand falls to the shoulder, blocking the tattoo. “It’s alright. We’ll take care of you.”
I leave Dillon, intent to look at the kid’s intake form. If there are people listed, I’ll be sure to have them banned.
“Wife.”
Freezing, my body jolts as if electrocuted. Lifting my chin, shoulders back, I glare into the smug face of Roman Bruno the Second.
Wife. I snort, trying to move around him. If anyone were to call me that—it wouldn’t be this asshole. When Roman says it, I want to pick my eyes out and drive wooden stakes into my ears. If Hayes ever said it—
I stop. Would it be so bad if he did?
“I’m not your wife.”
“You will be soon enough,” he retorts. I fight back the urge to rake my nails into his face like a pissed off cat. “It’s good you have a hobby. When we marry, I may let you treat the house. I have a lot of bodies that need tending to.”
I barely have time to swallow back the bile. Fixing up bodies—bodies he breaks over and over again—in that house of horrors reminds me too much of Pops. Of the lessons in the torture rooms. The cold hard steel of the autopsy tables. The screams—the pleas.
No.
“Get out.” I glare, pushing my glasses up my nose. “You don’t belong here.”
“A husband can’t come visit his wife?” He grabs my hand, dislocating my wrist in retaliation. I forget, Roman doesn’t like when women disrespect him.
Cold eyes glare at my fist as I exhale the pain. “Where did you get this ring?”
I try to tug away, but Roman’s grip is strong—stronger than I would have guessed. He’s a slimy creep, but he’s made from the same criminal underworld that bore my sister. That bore Hayes.
“My fiancé,” I snap, stomping my foot on his shiny black shoe. The bastard finally releases me as I cradle my throbbing arm. God, I need to shower to get the feel of his hands off of me. “Or haven’t you heard? I’m already engaged.”
“Engaged?” His face contorts into a mask of dark fury. I swallow nervously, bracing for impact. “Who? Is that why Ace postponed my proposal?”
Stubbornly, I cross my arms, using my clinical side to shield the fear his presence stirs up. The kind of training we’re taught in labs when confronted with dangerous men in confined spaces due to the rise of violence against healthcare workers.
“It’s none of your concern who.”
Roughing, he grabs my hair, hauling me out of the main room and to the side closet, yanking the door wide. We move too quickly for anyone to stop. Once inside, he slams me into the wall and a few supplies fall to the ground. Stars explode behind my eyes.
Fuck, that hurt.
Blinking hard, I hold my head before Roman’s angry face blocks my vision. His eyes are furious, flat, sharp pieces of black onyx that want to cut me to the core.
“Who, Collins?”
The rage is palpable, and my heart pounds in my ears. My throat constricts and I inhale, mentally counting to keep the panic at bay.
This is the man my sister battles weekly. The man the girls are too afraid to turn against. And I’m alone with him.
I never knew how he commanded such control, why my sister couldn’t stop him. Now, I understand their fear. I understand Maeve’s disgust. And now, I’m facing all of it head on.
My neck gets tighter and I claw my nails into the sides, as I gasp, “Careful. Hurt me and you’re hurting Ace’s little sister.”
I don’t even know if what I said holds water. But I know my sister—I know her reputation. Men are frightened of her and I need to remind Bruno that I am an extension of her.
There’s a moment of pause, his mind calculating the damage Ace will do to his forces. I’ve never been so happy before that my oldest sister is a psychopath.
“You think it’s any worse than what she did to my brother?”
Internally, I wince. Damn. She did kill Julian last night. Frankly, I forgot.
“What she did to him will be a mercy compared to what she does to you.”
Rocking back, he huffs dryly. “The last time I saw this ring,” he begins, pulling my fist into the air again, so we can both see it, “was in my family’s safe. Where did you get it?”
My mouth snaps shut so quickly I bite my tongue. I’m not telling Roman anything—especially if it would harm Hayes.
Yet, he sees it and a foul smile curves over his face.
“Fucking prick,” he swears, slamming his hand into the wall beside my head.
I yelp, cowering from the outburst. Debris falls down, dusting my shoulders and hair.
“Listen well, little mouse,” he breathes and it smells like hot floral perfume and alcohol.
“Whatever he thinks he’s doing by taking you, won’t work.
You’ll be mine, and Ace will not be able to stop it.
” He presses an open palm against my face, grinding my temple into the wall.
He wants me to be afraid—to show his power over me.
I shudder. It’s fucking working.
“We’ll see about that,” I say bravely.
Tsking, Roman shoves off of me. “I expect to see you at the club next Saturday. The regulars are complaining. Or,” he says, straightening his suit jacket, as if he didn’t just assault me, “I can tell Ace all about your weekend adventures. Your choice.”
He whips open the door, the knob banging into the concrete wall, before moving to bay seven. My heart sinks. He’s hurting that poor child—just like he killed the boy Maeve gave her protection to.
He’s the worst kind of monster in human form.
I don’t bother telling Dillon I’m leaving. I can’t put the words together, body shaking so badly I drop my badge three times. A panic attack sits on the tip of my tongue, and I grab my things, running from the ER as fast as possible.
I’m not safe here. Not if Roman can get me.
I take off toward home, to the only person who has ever made me feel secure—Hayes.