I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I let myself be held. Let myself be comforted. Let myself believe, just for a moment, that I'm not alone in this.
"I think I'm falling for you too," I whisper against his skin. The admission costs me something—some small piece of the independence I've clung to so desperately. But the way his arms tighten around me, the way his breath catches, makes it worth the price.
We stay like that for a long time, naked and vulnerable in more ways than one. The world outside this office—with all its dangers and complications—seems distant, unimportant. For now, there is only this: his heartbeat beneath my ear, his arms around me, the shared understanding that we are alike in our brokenness, our hunger, our need.
Later, we'll have to face reality again.
CHAPTER 8
The harsh lights of the hallway make my eyes ache as I finish stitching up one of Blackwood's men—a burly enforcer named Damon who took a gunshot wound to the forearm during what he vaguely described as a "business disagreement."
"You're getting better at this," he says, examining my handiwork with an appreciative eye. "Barely gonna scar."
I tie off the last suture, snipping the thread with practiced precision. "That's the idea. Though something tells me you're not exactly avoiding situations where you might get stabbed."
He grins, unrepentant. "Occupational hazard."
"Keep it clean, change the dressing daily, and come back in a week to get the stitches removed." I peel off my gloves, tossing them in the bin. "And maybe consider a career change."
"Where's the fun in that?" He slides off the examination table, rolling down his sleeve over the fresh bandage. "Thanks, Doc."
The title still feels strange—I'm not a doctor yet, just a glorified medic for criminals—but I don't correct him. In this world, titles are earned through competence, not credentials.
I finish my notes as Damon leaves, documenting the procedure in the meticulous records Blackwood insists I keep. Everything by the book, even when the book itself is soaked in blood.
My phone buzzes in my pocket—a text from Ian.
Finished early. Coming to get you. 20 minutes.
A flutter of anticipation ripples through me. It's been three weeks since that night in his office, three weeks of living together in his apartment, three weeks of falling into a rhythm that feels dangerously close to happiness. We still haven't put a name to what we are, what we're doing. But every night I fall asleep in his arms, and every morning I wake to find him watching me with an expression that makes my chest ache.
I pack up my supplies, wiping down the small examination room Blackwood has set aside for me in the back of Rhapsody. It's a far cry from a sterile hospital, but I've made it work—organized my tools and medicines with the same precision I once applied to my dancing routine.
The irony isn't lost on me. I came to Rhapsody to strip, to use my body as a means to an end. Now I use my hands to heal instead of seduce, though the pay is considerably better.
I finish cleaning and head upstairs to the main club. It's early evening, the dancers just starting to arrive for their shifts. I spot Saffron by the bar, already in costume, sipping what looks like cranberry juice while scrolling through her phone.
She looks up as I approach, her face breaking into a genuine smile. "Well, if it isn't Dr. Young. Slumming it with us commoners tonight?"
I roll my eyes, sliding onto the stool beside her. "Not a doctor yet."
"But you will be." She nudges my shoulder with hers. "Don't think I haven't noticed those study guides you're always buried in during breaks."
I've been studying for the MCAT in every spare moment, determined to apply to medical school for the next cycle. It feels like chasing a mirage sometimes—the dream I've been running toward for so long, always just out of reach.
"We'll see," I say noncommittally. "How's Jasmine?"
Saffron's face softens at the mention of her daughter. "Growing too fast. Already talking about kindergarten like she's heading off to college."
"She's lucky to have you," I say, meaning it. Saffron works harder than anyone I know, all for the little girl who waits for her at home.
"Damn straight." She finishes her drink, setting the glass down with a decisive clink. "Gotta go get ready. Blackwood's bringing in some big spenders tonight."
I watch her sashay toward the dressing rooms, her confidence a tangible thing. There was a time when I envied that confidence, tried to emulate it on stage. Now I realize it was never about the dancing—it was about owning her choices, refusing to apologize for doing what needed to be done.
The back door opens, and Ian steps in, his eyes immediately finding mine across the room. Something warm unfurls in my chest at the sight of him—tall and solid in his customary black suit, his face serious until he sees me. Then his expression shifts, softening in a way few people ever get to witness.
I slide off the stool and meet him halfway, conscious of the eyes tracking our movement. Our relationship isn't a secret, but we're both private people, uncomfortable with public displays.
