Chapter 2 - The Crimson Stain"Hold still, or I'll stitch your arm to your ribs."
In the back of a black-tinted bulletproof Mercedes Sprinter speeding recklessly toward the secure subterranean garage of Crosswell Clinic, I was knee-deep in emergency triage.
Damian sat across from me in the leather captain's chair, a long graze along his left forearm weeping a steady line of dark crimson onto his custom white shirt cuff. He refused to let the clinic's senior surgeon touch him. He had ordered everyone out except me, Miller, and the driver.
"You're shaking," Damian noted, his voice flat, devoid of the panic that usually plagued wounded men.
"I almost died because you decided to drag your underground clinic nurse to a high-society assassination party," I snapped back, pulling the needle through his skin with a sharp, practiced jerk. I didn't care about his title tonight. Right now, he was just a patient with bad habits.
Damian didn't wince. His dark eyes tracked every micro-expression on my face, studying me with a intensity that made my skin itch.
"You didn't just survive," Damian murmured, leaning forward slightly, ignoring the pull of the stitches. "You spotted Leo from thirty feet away. You recognized a tattoo under a cuff you haven't seen in six months. You saved my life, Dr. Elizabeth Vance."
I froze, the medical forceps hovering over the antiseptic wipe.
"You know my full name." It wasn't a question.
"I know everything about the people who work under my roof," Damian said smoothly, though a flicker of raw possessiveness flashed across his features. "What I didn't know was that my quiet, invisible, green-scrubs-wearing trauma doctor spent her free time looking like a lethal weapon in a backless crimson dress."
"My personal life is none of your business, Mr. Cross."
"Nothing about you is private anymore, Elizabeth," he replied, his voice dropping into a tone that sent an involuntary shiver straight down my spine. "Not after tonight. Mercer thinks he can send a dead man's crew into my hotel and walk away. He's wrong."
"Who is Mercer?" I asked, finishing the knot and snipping the thread.
"A rival who forgets who owns the shipping lanes in this city," Damian said, standing up with sudden, coiled energy. The Mercedes glided to a halt in the sub-level garage. "And tonight, he just signed his own death warrant."
The doors slid open. Armed guards flanked the exit, but Damian didn't step out immediately. He reached out, his warm calloused fingers catching my chin, tilting my face up so I had no choice but to look into his eyes.
"Stay in the clinic tonight," he ordered quietly. "Don't go home. My men will secure the perimeter. Because the moment Mercer realizes Leo failed, he's going to try to finish what he started."
"And what about you?" I whispered, my breath catching as his thumb brushed lightly across my jawline.
May you like
Damian’s lips curved into a cold, dangerous smile.
"I'm going to pay Mercer a visit."
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