Chapter 2

A man lay on the bed, bleeding from his chest.

He was shirtless. Muscular. He has a neck tattoo. And terrifyingly beautiful.

A bloody tear sliced across his ribs, but even injured, he looked like the kind of man you only saw in nightmares or dreams. Dangerous. Wild. Dark skinned.

God. He's fine. What the hell is wrong with me?

"Treat him," the guard said behind me.

I walked over slowly and leaned closer. "A gunshot?" I muttered. "We need to take him to the hospital."

Before I could finish, the man beside me took out a gun and pointed it right at my head. My heart stopped. Holy Christ.

My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

The smell of blood was thick in the air. I knelt beside the bed, looking down at the man bleeding out like a scene from a damn crime movie. His chest rose and fell slowly, but the blood wouldn't stop seeping.

My palms were shaking, but I held the forceps tightly, forcing myself to breathe through my mouth.

I was a doctor. I was supposed to know what to do.

But not like this. Not with a gun pointed to the side of my head and a growling voice saying, "If he dies, you die."

Hell no.

I swallowed hard, wiped my hands quickly on the towel I had, and leaned in to inspect the wound again. The bullet had grazed his ribs, didn't pierce deep into the lungs, but it was enough to cause steady bleeding.

I pulled out a small clamp and pressed it around the torn vessel. He groaned slightly under sedation, his chest twitching.

"You better not mess this up," the guy with the gun warned again, his voice cold like he could shoot me without blinking.

"I'm not trying to die today, okay?" I snapped, my voice cracking, but I didn't look up.

I stitched him up slowly, carefully. My breathing matched his now. He was unconscious, but his face was calm, even handsome. Too handsome for someone with a hole in his ribs and a house guarded like a war bunker.

When I was finally done and cleaned up the blood, I wiped my forehead and turned to grab my bag.

"I'm done. He's stable now. He needs rest, and takes antibiotics. I'll text Ruby the-"

"You're not going anywhere," one of the guards said firmly.

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Sit." He pointed to a chair by the wall. "You'll wait until the boss wakes up."

Boss? Wait. Who the hell was this man?

I didn't say it out loud, but the question screamed in my head. Who needs this kind of security? Who gets shot and treated in their mansion? Who has strangers held hostage at gunpoint?

I hoped he was not in the mafia, I didn't want to get myself involved in one anymore.

I walked to the chair slowly, sat down, and folded my arms tightly over my chest. My bag rested on my lap. My body was tired, but my mind raced.

I reached for my phone, needing to at least text Ruby and tell her I was at the VIP’s mansion. But the second I grabbed it, one of them yanked it from my hand.

"Hey! I just need to-"

"You don't use a phone in this house," he snapped.

"I'm not calling the police or anything! I just want to-"

"Shut the fuck up before I put a bullet in your brain."

My throat closed. I swallowed everything I wanted to say. My heart beat so loud I thought they could hear it.

My legs were trembling, but I curled them under the chair and kept still.

So I waited. With fear in my throat and tension so tight in the room, I could barely breathe. An hour passed.

Two.

Three.

And then—

A low groan came from the bed.

I jumped up.

The man shifted, his body twitching, face tightening as he blinked slowly. His eyes fluttered open and I froze.

Holy shit.

His eyes. Light brown. Like honey mixed with fire. Our eyes locked. My heart jumped.

He stared at me like he was trying to figure out if I was real. I tried to look away but I couldn't.

I swallowed and quickly walked over to him. My hands trembled as I grabbed my small flashlight and sat beside him.

"Can you see me clearly?" I asked softly, waving the light in front of his eyes.

He didn't answer. Just stared.

I held up two fingers. "How many fingers do you see?"

Before I could react, he grabbed my hand and pulled me forward. I gasped as my body landed on his chest, gently but suddenly. He groaned, probably from the pain, and I instantly panicked.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry-" I started, trying to pull away.

But he held me tight. His grip wasn't harsh. It was firm.

Controlling. Possessive.

Then he looked into my eyes and said, low and calm, "I like you. You're mine now."

What?

"What do you mean?" I asked, frowning. "Did the injury mess with your brain? Hold on, let me check you again."

I tried to pull back, but he didn't let go.

"You already messed with my brain," he said with a smirk.

I blinked. "What is wrong with this man?" I muttered under my breath. Is he drunk? Delirious? Am I losing my damn mind?

He finally let go of me, and I stood up quickly, feeling heat rush to my cheeks.

As I leaned forward to check his stitches, I saw fresh blood. My heart sank.

"Great," I sighed. "Why would you pull me like that? You've hurt yourself again."

He didn't answer. Just stared at me like I was some damn dessert. I tried not to notice. Tried. I re-did the stitches as best as I could, this time more carefully. His eyes never left my face.

"You should close your eyes," I muttered while working. "I don't work well when I'm being stared at like I'm a piece of meat."

Still no response.

When I finished, I stood up, wiped my gloves, and scribbled a quick prescription note. I handed it to one of the men.

"He needs this. Give it to the pharmacy and follow the dosage."

I turned to him. "Take care of yourself. I need to leave now."

I grabbed my bag and turned toward the door, to collect my phone from the guard.

"Where do you think you're going, ma’am?" his voice came from behind me.

I paused. His tone was cool, but deep, and commanding.

I turned slowly. "What do you mean? It's late. I need to go home."

He tilted his head. His eyes narrowed slightly as he stared at me like I was saying something funny.

"This is your home now," he said. "You're not going anywhere. I said you're mine now."

I froze.

The air in the room shifted. The men near the door stood still like statues. My heart pounded again.

Was he joking? Was this some weird joke?

But his eyes... no. He wasn't joking.

He meant it.