THE WOMAN HE HIRED

12

The elevator doors slid shut behind them with a soft hiss, sealing out the noise of the city.

The ride was quiet—too quiet—both of them riding the aftershock of adrenaline. Ramsi stood a half-step behind Dominic, attention split between the devices secured at her side and the reflection in the mirrored wall.

That’s when she saw it.

Dark red seeping through the seam of Dominic’s jacket at the shoulder.

“Stop,” she said sharply.

Dominic glanced at her reflection. “What?”

“You’re bleeding.”

He followed her gaze, then shrugged it off like it was nothing. “Just a graze. I’ll handle it later.”

“There’s medical supplies in my penthouse,” he added as the elevator continued its smooth ascent. “I’ll take care of it upstairs.”

Ramsi stepped closer, her tone leaving no room for debate. “No. It needs to be cleaned now.”

Dominic turned slightly, meeting her eyes. “Ramsi—”

She cut him off without raising her voice. “Bullet wounds don’t wait for convenience. Infection doesn’t care who you are.”

The elevator chimed softly as it passed another floor.

Ramsi reached past him and pressed the control panel, overriding the selection with quick, precise movements. The elevator responded immediately, shifting course.

“We’re going up,” she said flatly. “Now.”

Dominic watched her for a beat, then something like reluctant amusement flickered across his expression. “You always this bossy after firefights?”

“Only when people try to bleed out in front of me,” she replied, already unzipping her jacket to check her kit.

The elevator slowed.

When the doors opened to the penthouse level, warm light spilled in—quiet, controlled, private.

Dominic stepped out first, then paused, glancing back at her. “You know, you could’ve just asked.”

Ramsi met his gaze, eyes steady. “I wasn’t asking.”

The doors slid shut behind them, sealing them into the space.

And for the first time since Chicago started unraveling, the danger wasn’t outside the room—it was in the quiet space between them, charged and unavoidable.

Ramsi stepped fully into the penthouse, eyes already mapping the space out of instinct before her attention snapped back to Dominic.

“Where’s the medical kit?” she asked.

“Hallway, second door on the left,” he replied, already loosening his tie. “Top shelf.”

“Sit,” she said, pointing to the couch without looking at him. “And take your coat off.”

Dominic hesitated just long enough to be noticeable.

Ramsi shot him a look. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

That earned her a faint huff of a laugh. He did as he was told, shrugging out of his coat and setting it aside, rolling his shoulder experimentally as he sat.

Ramsi moved quickly, disappearing down the hallway. She found the kit exactly where he said it would be—well-stocked, organized, military-grade. Of course it was.

She grabbed what she needed and returned, already snapping on gloves as she crossed the room.

“Let me see,” she said.

Dominic angled his body toward her, pulling his shirt back enough to expose the wound. The bullet had creased his shoulder—angry, shallow, still bleeding but not catastrophic.

Ramsi crouched in front of him, close enough now that she could feel the heat still rolling off his skin. She cleaned around the wound with efficient precision, movements practiced and careful.

He inhaled sharply when the antiseptic hit.

“Hold still,” she said quietly.

“I am,” he replied, though the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “You’re thorough.”

“Alive people deserve thorough,” she murmured, eyes never leaving her work.

Her fingers were steady, sure, pressing gauze, checking depth, already assessing whether it needed stitches.

Dominic watched her then—not the wound, but her. The focus in her eyes, the calm authority in her hands. There was nothing hesitant about her.

“You’ve done this a lot,” he said.

Ramsi didn’t look up. “Enough.”

She finished cleaning the area and reached for a fresh bandage, wrapping his shoulder with practiced ease, firm but careful not to restrict movement.

“There,” she said softly. “No infection. No excuses.”

He flexed his shoulder again, slower this time. “You’re very convincing.”

She finally looked up at him, meeting his gaze from inches away. “Don’t test that.”

For a moment, neither of them moved.

The city lights glowed behind them, the danger momentarily held at bay, while something quieter—and far more dangerous—settled into the space between them.

Ramsi straightened slightly, hands still at his shoulder, when the space between them shifted.

It wasn’t sudden. It was inevitable.

Dominic’s hand came up slowly, fingers closing around her wrist—not stopping her, just anchoring her. His gaze held hers, dark and intent, something unspoken tightening in his jaw.

“Ramsi,” he said quietly.

She didn’t pull away.

Instead, he drew her closer—one controlled movement—and she found herself seated in his lap, the world narrowing to breath and heat and the steady thrum of his pulse beneath her hands.

For a heartbeat, they hovered there.

Then Dominic kissed her.

Not gentle. Not tentative.

It was deep, deliberate, charged with everything they hadn’t said—the danger, the restraint, the mutual understanding forged under fire. His hand slid to the small of her back, holding her there as if letting go wasn’t an option.

Ramsi froze for exactly half a second.

Then she kissed him back just as hard.

Her fingers curled into his shirt, grounding herself, the taste of adrenaline and something darker between them. The city outside disappeared. The plans, the threats, Hall—gone, for this moment.

When they finally broke apart, breath uneven, foreheads resting together, the tension didn’t ease.

If anything, it sharpened.

Dominic exhaled slowly, voice low. “Tell me to stop.”

Ramsi didn’t hesitate.

“Don’t,” she said.

And in the quiet penthouse, with danger waiting just beyond the walls, the line between control and surrender blurred—just enough to be impossible to ignore.