Tamed By Her Touch

2: Three Feet

My eyelids felt glued shut.

They were crusty and heavy, and when I finally managed to pry them open, my brain didn't exactly wake up. It sort of crawled back into my head, slow and confused, grabbing onto random things before I could even see properly.

Warmth.

That was the first thing I noticed.

Not the dry, choking heat from the warehouse. And, thank God, none of that horrible metallic smell of old blood and wet grease. This place smelled thick and sweet, with the sharp scent of shaved cedar hanging in the air.

I blinked a few times, but my eyes felt dry as sand.

A ceiling slowly came into view. It was ridiculously high, and somewhere above me, a plastic vent rattled with this annoying little hum. There was a faint smell of bleach too, like a hospital hallway after the night shift, except somehow this didn't feel like a hospital.

I tried pushing myself up with my palms.

Big mistake.

The whole room suddenly tilted to the left.

My stomach lurched so hard I nearly threw up. I dropped back onto the mattress, my head smacking against the pillows as everything went gray around me.

Okay.

Don't move.

Just don't move.

I lay there until the spinning finally started to calm down, then slowly tried again, this time propping myself up on my elbows. High ceilings. Massive curtains pulled tightly over the windows. Not even a tiny bit of morning light was getting through.

The walls were painted this expensive-looking charcoal gray. The kind of place that looked like whoever lived here cared more about locks and security than whether anyone actually felt comfortable.

Then I noticed the shape standing near the wall.

Him.

The giant from the butcher shop.

He didn't even have to say anything. Just standing there made the room feel smaller. He was massive, basically a whole wall of muscle and black tactical clothing, leaning against the charcoal paint like he owned the entire building.

His clothes were clean now. Black trousers. A heavy zip-up shirt stretched across a chest that looked like it could stop a truck.

There was no blood on him this time.

But he still had the gloves.

Thick, dull black gloves that went all the way up his forearms under his sleeves, tight against his skin.

Why the hell was he wearing gloves inside a house?

My brain was still half-dead, but apparently that was the question it decided to focus on.

Maybe he had some rash.

Psoriasis.

Eczema.

Yeah. Maybe he was just really self-conscious about his hands.

I dragged my eyes up to his face.

It was all hard edges and shadows. His hair was dark and thick, chopped short on top but growing messy around his ears like he hadn't let a barber touch him in months. His jaw looked like it was permanently clenched, and those same flat, dead-brown eyes were fixed on me.

“Where… where’s this?” I croaked.

My throat felt like sandpaper.

“Safe.”

I probably shouldn't have believed a man who looked like he killed people for a living, but somehow my chest loosened a little anyway. His voice was so deep it almost made my heartbeat slow down.

“Whose house?” I whispered.

He pushed himself away from the wall.

Even that looked intimidating.

“Mine.”

I waited.

He stared at me.

I stared back.

Then, like he finally decided I deserved at least one useful piece of information, he said, “Rafael Desantis.”

The name hit me like a brick.

Rafael Desantis.

My mind immediately started digging through every stupid rumor I'd ever heard in breakrooms, back alleys, and around Port Zera.

Everybody knew that name.

He was the guy who rebuilt the governor's estate after the fires. The guy whose iron foundries supplied the huge support beams for the new surgical wing at the hospital where I worked. His name was on brass plaques at the children's clinic.

And it was also the name people whispered whenever guns went missing from the docks.

My ribs suddenly felt too tight around my lungs.

“Why did you haul me here?”

His jaw twitched.

Just a tiny movement, but I caught it. He clearly hated talking but still, he answered.

“Because they were about to put a hole in your head.”

I flinched.

“You could've just left me on the floor,” I muttered. My voice sounded weak and scratchy, and I hated it. “I mean… thanks. Thanks for the save. But why this? What do you want with a doctor? Your men. Do they...need one?”

His eyes moved over my face.

Quick. Cold.

Checking the bruises, I guess. He almost looked annoyed to be standing there.

“I don’t leave assets behind in the dirt.”

Assets.

I hated that word immediately.

It made me feel like a box sitting in some warehouse. Like I was a thing. Something that could be bought, sold, or moved around whenever someone felt like it.

He breathed out roughly through his nose.

He looked frustrated. Maybe because he'd said something stupid. Maybe because I looked like I was about to throw up. Or maybe he just didn't know what to do with an actual person instead of a target.

He took two heavy steps toward me and stopped.

Exactly three feet from the mattress.

It was weirdly specific, like there was an invisible line on the floor and he wasn't allowed to cross it.

“Doctor Gu—Alves,” he corrected himself, his voice dropping lower. “The bastards in that warehouse didn't just want to scare you. They wanted your name on a land deed.”

I stared at him.

A cold sweat started creeping down the back of my neck.

“Some of them just wanted the dirt,” he continued, his voice getting sharper. “Some wanted you under the concrete. Most wanted both. They get the signature, then they dump you in the river.”

My fingers curled into the sheets.

I didn't even realize I was doing it until I felt the gray fabric bunching underneath my hands.

“If I hadn't blown that door,” he said, “Cedric Norton would've sent more muscle tomorrow. And the day after. Until he got the paper or you stopped breathing.”

“But why?” I whispered.

My eyes burned.

“It’s just an old, overgrown farm. There’s nothing there. It’s dirt and weeds.”

“It’s value you’re too blind to see,” he said. His voice was solid and completely certain. “Norton sees it. Your deadbeat uncle sees it. Every dead guy on that floor knew what it was worth. And there are plenty more coming.”

My heart did this frantic little jump against my ribs.

“So what’s your cut?” I snapped.

The words came out before I could stop them. Panic was making me stupid.

“What do you get out of playing the hero? The land? You expect me to just hand it over to you instead? Or are you just gonna wait until the bruises clear up before you finish it?”

Before he could answer, the heavy wooden door slammed against the drywall.

I jumped.

Dominic Santos stumbled into the room, tall and skinny and looking like he'd slept in a dumpster. He had on a white button-down shirt with three buttons missing near the throat, his hair looked like a bird had built a nest in it, and he was holding a white ceramic mug that looked big enough to hold a whole quart of soup.

“Look at that, the princess is awake,” he chirped, way too loudly. “Morning, doc. Or whatever hell-hour this is. My internal clock is fried.”

“Three sixteen.”

The deep voice came from the hallway.

Thiago Costa walked in behind him.

The guy was a mountain. Seriously. He was built like an old Sears refrigerator with legs, but somehow he had these slow, sleepy eyes that looked completely wrong on someone who probably could've snapped a pine tree in half.

“You’re good here, ma'am,” Thiago said, and his voice was surprisingly soft. “The boss doesn't bring the work home unless it matters.”

Dominic laughed into his coffee.

“Wow, Thiago. That sounded almost sweet. You got a crush?”

Thiago didn't even blink.

“Did it sound like that?”

I just stared at them.

My brain was already struggling to keep up, and now these two were standing here having a completely normal conversation like I wasn't lying in a strange bed after almost getting murdered.

Rafael didn't move.

Not even a little.

His eyes just shifted toward the door.

“Costa. Santos. Shut it.”

Both men straightened immediately.

The joking disappeared from their faces.

Rafael looked back at me, and some of the tension in his huge shoulders dropped. Maybe half an inch.

“You’ll get the whole story. But you’re shaking like a leaf.”

I looked down.

My hands were literally trembling against the blanket.

Oh.

Great.

“I’ll go grab some hot water,” Thiago murmured, already turning toward the hallway.

“I can offer you some old espresso or some very bad therapeutic talk,” Dominic added, lifting his giant mug with a grin. “Though the coffee’s probably safer.”

“No.”

Rafael said it so flatly that Dominic's grin disappeared for half a second.

“One of these days, boss, you’re gonna let me take care of a guest.”

“No, I will not.”

Thiago came back a second later with a thick glass of warm water. He set it carefully on the bedside table, which was honestly weird considering how huge he was.

I grabbed the glass with both hands.

My knuckles were white as I forced the water down. It was warm, and the heat helped with the dry, painful feeling in my throat. I coughed once and set the glass down.

Rafael waited until it clicked against the wood.

“Nobody’s locking you in here,” he said. “But you stay put. Out there, you’re meat. In here, nobody touches you unless I say so.”

“Protected from what?” I whispered.

My voice cracked.

His eyes locked onto mine.

Heavy. Dark.

“From every prick in this province who knows what’s under your dad’s dirt.”

Silence filled the room again.

It smelled like cedar and old gunpowder, and suddenly I had this horrible feeling that there was something going on here that I didn't understand. Something much bigger than some stupid piece of farmland.

Rafael reached down and grabbed the edges of his black gloves, pulling them tighter around his thick wrists.

The leather creaked in the quiet.

“There’s exactly one way to pull the target off your back for good,” he said, his voice dropping until it was almost a growl. “One way to make sure nobody dares to look at you.”

My breath caught.

“And since you’re a doctor,” he muttered, his face going blank again, “you’re gonna want every single line in ink before we go any further.”

He gave Thiago a tiny jerk of his chin.

“Costa. Go fetch the contract.”

Thiago stood there for a second, his heavy brows pulling together.

Then he turned and walked back into the dark hallway.

Contract?

The word bounced around inside my empty, dizzy head.

What contract?