Chapter Two: A Deal with the Devil
709 Words
Elena’s fingers trembled as she pressed against the stranger’s wound, feeling the sticky warmth of blood seep between her hands. He hissed through clenched teeth, his powerful body coiled like a predator ready to strike, even in his weakened state.
What the hell am I doing?
She wasn’t a doctor. She wasn’t even sure she should be helping him at all. The sensible thing would be to call an ambulance and walk away. But something about him—the way his sharp green eyes burned into her, the way his body refused to surrender to the pain—made her stay.
"You need stitches," she said, ignoring the way his gaze traced the curve of her throat.
He let out a rough chuckle, a dark, broken sound. "I need a hell of a lot more than stitches, sweetheart."
She glanced over her shoulder. The alley was deserted for now, but something told her it wouldn’t stay that way for long. Someone had tried to kill him. Someone might still be looking for him.
Shit.
"Can you walk?" she asked, shifting her weight, ready to help him up.
His lips curled at the edges, a flicker of amusement in his otherwise hardened expression. "Worried about me?"
No, she wanted to say. But she couldn’t deny the uneasy twist in her stomach at the thought of leaving him here, bleeding out like an injured beast.
She sighed. "I live two blocks away. I can clean the wound, but after that, you're on your own."
His gaze darkened, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. "Two blocks, huh?" He studied her, his stare almost too intense. "You sure you want to take me home?"
A shiver ran through her, and not just from the cold. This was a bad idea.
A very bad idea.
But she squared her shoulders and extended a hand. "Do you want my help or not?"
For a long moment, he just stared at her, as if he was trying to decide whether to trust her or snap her neck. Then, with a low grunt, he took her hand.
The second his palm touched hers, a current of heat shot through her skin.
His grip was firm, his fingers rough with old scars. Even wounded, even weakened, he was raw power and danger wrapped in human form.
And now, he was in her hands.
Half an Hour Later – Elena’s Apartment
Elena pushed the door open with her shoulder, half-carrying, half-dragging the stranger inside. The scent of blood and rain filled the small space, mixing with the faint vanilla of her candles.
She kicked the door shut and locked it. Twice.
"Sit," she ordered, nodding toward the couch.
He let out a deep, irritated sigh but obeyed, sinking onto the cushions with a hiss. His white dress shirt was beyond saving, soaked in crimson, sticking to his hard, sculpted chest.
Elena grabbed the first aid kit from the bathroom and knelt in front of him. "This is going to hurt."
He smirked. "I like a little pain, sweetheart."
Her breath hitched, and his smirk widened.
Cocky bastard.
She bit her lip, trying to ignore the way his eyes darkened at the sight of it. Focus.
She cleaned the wound, her fingers brushing against his skin. He was warm—too warm. His body radiated heat, muscles tensing beneath her touch.
"You're surprisingly good at this," he murmured, watching her through hooded eyes.
She arched a brow. "You get shot often?"
His smirk faded, replaced by something colder. "More than I should."
Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words.
Elena swallowed hard, finishing the last stitch. "There. You should be fine as long as you don’t—"
In a flash, his hand was around her wrist.
Her breath caught.
His grip was firm, but not painful—a warning, not a threat. His thumb brushed over her pulse, and she knew he could feel it racing.
"Who are you?" he asked, voice low, dangerous.
Elena’s throat tightened. "No one."
His eyes told her he didn’t believe her.
Then, he leaned in, so close she could feel his breath against her lips.
"Wrong answer, little dove."
And just like that, she knew—she was in deep, deep trouble.
- Writer
