BETRAYED BY MY EX, CLAIMED BY THE DEVIL'S HOUNDS PRESIDENT

CHARLOTTE I had exactly twenty minutes before Damian's alarm went off, and I planned to spend every single one making sure his morning went perfectly. It was a routine I had perfected over three years. I woke at four-thirty and slipped out of bed without making a sound to disturb him, because as a surgeon, he needed his rest. By the first light of morning, his breakfast was ready and his gray suit hung on the back of the bedroom door. I tucked a small note under his coffee cup, the way I did every morning. "I hope you have a great day. I'm proud of you and everything you've achieved." With his food prepared, I went to the bathroom to start on the laundry. Damian insisted that the washing machine ruined his work shirts, so I washed them by hand, one at a time. The water was freezing at that hour, and my fingers were numb within minutes, but I didn't mind. It was the least I could do for a man who worked so hard. I picked up his white shirt from the top of the pile of clothes, and I froze. A smear of red lipstick stained the collar. Tangled around one of the buttons was a long strand of dark hair, nothing like my own short curls. My stomach dropped so fast that I felt dizzy. My hands trembled and for a moment, I couldn't even hear the water running. I wanted to believe there was an explanation - a grateful patient maybe, or a careless hug from a colleague. But lipstick didn't land on a collar by accident, and this wasn't the first time I had found something. Last month, it was the scent of a woman's perfume on his jacket and before that, it was a hotel receipt folded in his pocket. Each time, I had talked myself out of it and convinced myself I was imagining things. This time, I didn't want to stay quiet. I wrung out the shirt, dried my hands, and took a deep breath before I walked back into the kitchen, where Damian had just come down. "Good morning love," I said, forcing a smile as I pulled out his chair. "Did you sleep well?" "Fine." He didn't even bother to look up from his phone. I placed his plate in front of him and held out the shirt with trembling fingers. "Damian, whose is this?" He looked at the collar, then at me, and instead of guilt, irritation crossed his face. Then, he let out a long sigh. "Here we go again," he said. "You're being insecure, Charlotte." "Bu-but it's lipstick," I stuttered. "And there's a woman's hair on your button." "I'm a doctor," he snapped. "I meet dozens of women every day, and some of them hug me when I save the lives of their relatives. Am I supposed to explain every single one to you?" He snatched the shirt out of my hand and tossed it over the back of the chair. "Don't embarrass yourself." My throat tightened until it hurt. There were so many things I wanted to say. I wanted to tell him about the perfume and the receipt, and about all the nights I had waited up with his dinner going cold. But what came out of my mouth was a whisper. "I'm sorry." He nodded and picked up his fork. The note I had written sat under his cup, and he didn't even glance at it. I stood there gripping the edge of the counter, wondering when saying sorry had become so easy for me. Then I remembered the night when it all started. Three years ago, my mother collapsed and every doctor refused her case. Damian walked in at three in the morning, read her scans, and saved her life. My knees gave way in that hallway, and he was the one who caught me. Somewhere along the way, gratitude turned into love and we started dating. I was determined to repay him by being the best girlfriend I could be and so, rather than nag, I made excuses for all his excesses - he couldn't touch me because he was tired, he carried people's lives in his hands... I was already running late for my shift, but I still ironed his coat and packed his lunch, adding the extra piece of chicken he liked. When I handed it over to him, he took it without a word, his eyes still fixed on his phone. "Don't forget to call your mother tonight," I reminded him. "It's her birthday." He grunted and walked out without a word, and I sighed in exhaustion. I grabbed my bag and sprinted to the bus stop, catching the bus just as the doors started to close. For the length of the ride, the image of that lipstick on his shirt haunted me. I clocked in at work four minutes late, and the moment I stepped into the ward, I knew something was wrong. The nurses weren't working. They stood in small groups along the corridor, whispering with wide eyes, and every one of them kept glancing toward the end of the hallway. As I passed the nurses' station, I caught a piece of what they were saying. "They brought him in with his own personal guards," one of them murmured. "Of course," another chipped in. "He's the president of the notorious Black Vipers MC." "I'm not going anywhere near him," the last of them muttered. Before I could ask what was going on, the director hurried over to me. "Charlotte, thank goodness you're here," he sighed. "We have a patient in Ward 9 and nobody else is willing to go in. You've never been one to back down from duty. Please, I need you to attend to him." I wanted to refuse. I knew nothing about the man except that the entire floor was terrified of him. But it was my job to save lives. So, I agreed. Walking in, I noticed that the room reeked of smoke and blood. A monitor beeped softly in the corner, and two men in leather jackets stood on either side of the door, watching me with hard eyes. On the bed sat a burly man with gold rings on his fingers and a bandage wrapped across his head. Dried blood stained his collar, and his cold stare made the hairs on my body stand. He looked me up and down and frowned. "Where is the doctor? I didn't ask for a nurse." My heart was racing, but I kept my face calm. "All the doctors are busy so I'll be attending to you," I said. "Except you want to take your chances finding the closest hospital around as you bleed out." The room went silent and for a second, I thought I had made a terrible mistake. Then the corner of his lips creased into a smile, and he waved his hand. "Go on, then," he said. I washed my hands, pulled on gloves, and began to clean the dried blood from his head. Under it was a deep cut above his temple. I checked his pupils with my small light, and they responded normally. He watched me the entire time, and I could feel the two guards watching my back, but I kept my eyes on my work. My hands stayed steady, even though my heart was pounding. I closed the cut with six neat stitches, covered it with a clean dressing, and wrote my notes on his chart. When I was done, I pulled off my gloves and turned to leave. His hand shot out and he caught my wrist. He yanked me back so hard that I nearly fell against the bed. He was so close that I could smell the tobacco on his clothes. "Stay with me tonight," he hissed in my ears. "Name your price." For a second, I couldn't breathe. Then his other hand slid down my waist and grabbed my hips, and just like that, I lost it. I swung my free hand back and slapped him hard across the face with all the energy I could muster.