The Don’s Dangerous Addiction

Under His Watch

Morning light poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, spreading across the cold grey marble floor like the sterile glare of an operating room lamp.

Avery sat up, her body aching from the awkward position she had slept in. Her eyes swept across the room—

No photographs. No plants. No decorations of any kind. Pale grey walls, metal trim, a space so empty it made her chest tighten with unease.

The memories of last night crashed back into her mind. She took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

The motion-sensor lights in the hallway flickered on as she walked, clicking off again behind her. The doors on either side looked identical—silent, endless, as if she had stepped into a world cut off from everything else.

At the end of the corridor, two black-suited bodyguards blocked her path.

"Mr. Kessler's orders. It's best if you don't wander around."

Avery stopped. "I need access to Mr. Kessler's complete medical records. Without detailed medical history and medication logs, I can't develop a proper treatment plan. I need to return to my clinic to—"

"Anything your clinic can access, we have here."

The guard cut her off.

"Any resource Mr. Kessler needs for his treatment is also available here. Just tell us what you require."

Her fingertips went cold. Every excuse she had prepared had been shut down with a single sentence.

After changing, Avery was led by the guards toward the study.

The study was dimly lit. Dominic leaned back in his leather chair, dark circles shadowing his eyes. A coin spun slowly between his fingers.

He didn't look up when he heard her footsteps.

"Come here."

Avery walked over. Her phone sat on the desk, sealed in a clear plastic evidence bag.

She reached for it—but Dominic's hand pressed down on the bag before she could touch it.

"My caretaker might call the police if she can't reach me."

"The police?" He finally lifted his eyes, his gaze dragging across her face. "Are you threatening me?"

"Stating a fact."

He stared at her for a few seconds, then laughed. The smile didn't reach his eyes. He tapped his finger lightly against the plastic bag.

"Fine. You can call." He tilted his chin toward a small box on the corner of the desk, its red light glowing. "Speaker. I want to hear every word."

He leaned back, the coin spinning again. "After you're done, you can tell me why you put a listening device in my car last night."

The air froze for a moment.

Avery's expression didn't change, but her heart dropped like a stone. He knew. He had known from the very beginning.

She was silent for three seconds, then tore open the evidence bag, pressed speakerphone, and dialed her caretaker, Kate.

"Avery! Where are you—" Kate's voice was thick with tears.

"Kate, listen carefully." Avery cut her off. "I have an urgent project. I'll be away for a few days. Handle the 'patient' according to Protocol Three. Tell Julian I'll pay the fees on time."

"Understood. But someone came by today..." Kate lowered her voice. "He said he was your colleague. Asked which school Dorothea goes to. I didn't tell him, but he waited downstairs for a long time before leaving."

Avery's fingers tightened around the phone. "What did he look like?"

"He wore a mask and a hat. I couldn't see his face. Avery, I'm scared—"

"Stick to the protocol. Don't open the door."

She hung up.

She set down the phone and looked up, meeting Dominic's eyes.

"A child?" His eyes narrowed slightly.

"The listening device was my mentor's idea." Avery took a deep breath. "He said your previous treatments were all abandoned midway. He needed to know your true condition."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"You can choose not to. But it's the truth."

"Wenger." He repeated the name, rolling it over his tongue like he was tasting something bitter. "Your mentor. The one who recommended you to me."

"Yes."

"So from the very beginning, he planned to send you in as a pawn?"

"I'm not a pawn." Avery's voice steadied.

"I agreed to plant the device because I needed to track your progress. An uncooperative patient makes any treatment plan worthless. I needed data—not his trust."

Dominic stared at her for a long moment. Then he rose, walked around the massive desk, and stopped less than five centimeters from her.

His towering shadow consumed her entirely. The pressure of his presence forced her to tilt her head back just to meet his gaze.

He was too close.

The deep V of Dominic's open collar drew her gaze—she could see the sharp hollow of his collarbones, the broad chest rising and falling beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

Her clinical mind, almost against her will, supplied the assessment: perfect bone structure, extremely low body fat, powerful muscle fiber.

She knew exactly what kind of explosive force lay beneath that body—last night, he had used that same absolute strength to pull her into his arms with one hand.

But her professional "clinical observation" had somehow twisted into something else entirely—an unwanted heat she couldn't name.

She dug her nails into her palm, furious at herself for the involuntary attention she was paying to this dangerous man.

"Interesting." Dominic lowered his head.

He extended his long, slender fingers—not touching her, but tracing a slow, deliberate path through the air from her cheek down to the curve of her collarbone. The faint, almost imperceptible chill of his nearness raised goosebumps across her skin.

"Dr. Clair, in this room, people who anger me usually don't live to see the next sunrise. You're still alive only because you're useful."

His voice was low, resonant as a cello. "As for Wenger, I'll handle it. The listening device—consider it a debt you owe me."

Avery forced herself to look away from his chest, crushed the conflicting feelings rising in her throat, and met his eyes.

"How do I repay it?"

"You'll find out soon enough." He stepped back, breaking the dangerous proximity between them. "Now get ready. The first formal session starts in ten minutes."

He turned toward the door, pausing as he passed her.

"One more thing—what's Protocol Three?"

Avery didn't answer.

He didn't wait. He pushed the door open and walked out.

His footsteps faded down the hallway.

Avery stood frozen, her palms slick with cold sweat.

"Protocol Three" was the last line of defense she had left for her caretaker—

When Dorothea's episodes became uncontrollable, administer a strong sedative and lock the door. It was the last resort she never wanted to use, but the only way to protect her daughter from harming herself.

But that wasn't the only thing on her mind now.

The masked man. The one who had asked about Dorothea's school.

She turned—her peripheral vision caught the red light still glowing on the corner of the desk.

Recording. From the moment she had entered this room, every word had been recorded. Including her admission about the listening device.

The door opened.

Dominic returned, tossing a folder onto the desk without stepping inside.

"You said you needed data." He paused. "This is Wenger's medication records and lab reports from the past seven years. Page thirty-eight. Take a look."

He didn't explain further. He left.

Avery stared at the folder. She walked over and opened it.

Page thirty-eight.

Only a single black-and-white photo, poorly printed. An interior shot of a laboratory. A row of numbered tags hung on the wall. Her eyes landed on one of them—

030.

Her fingers stopped moving.

030… Julian's medical records had that same number too.

She didn't have time to process what that meant. She flipped straight to the last page.

Unlike the others, this page had no photos. Even the table entries were handwritten, the script neat and precise.

The list was divided into three columns—Name, Number, Remarks.

Her eyes scanned down, finally stopping at the seventh row.

*Avery St. Clair.*

She thought she had misread it. She pulled the folder closer, reading again.

Yes. The birth date matched perfectly.

The Number column was blank. The Remarks column contained two lines of stark, brutal text: *Candidate A / Blood sample match rate: 99.7%.*

Next to it, smaller text in darker ink—added later, it seemed:

*Antibody profile unique. Capable of neutralizing residual compounds in Subject 047. Long-term monitoring recommended. Do not eliminate.*

In that instant, Avery's blood turned to ice.

Her neck went numb, cold spreading down her spine like a slow poison.

It had never been a coincidence.

The high salary, the life-or-death contract—

Wenger had carefully selected her, offered her up like a sacrifice to this monster—as his "only antidote."

Dominic *was* Subject 047.

A sudden ringing filled her ears. All the sounds in the study faded into the distance. Only those words remained, seared into her vision.

What did any of this mean? She had no idea. But her hands were shaking—she didn't even notice until the edge of the folder cut into her fingertip, leaving a thin red line.

**BOOM—**

A dull explosion ripped through the air. The entire corridor trembled. The floor-to-ceiling windows cracked with a sickening screech. Avery instinctively dropped to the ground, covering her head with her arms.

The folder fell from her hands, the last page landing face-up, pressed into the broken glass.

"All units, on alert!"

The ringing in her ears drowned out everything else.

Red emergency lights flickered erratically. Smoke filled the hallway. The shouts of bodyguards, gunfire, footsteps—all of it blurred into a single chaotic roar.

A hand grabbed her wrist from above, pulling her up with a force that made her stumble.

"Get up."

Dominic's voice came from above. He didn't look at her—just pulled her deeper into the corridor. Avery was forced to follow, her medical kit slipping from her grasp. She instinctively turned back—

"Forget it."

At the end of the hall, he pushed open a door, shoved her inside, and locked it behind them.

The room was dark. A storage closet. Outside, the gunfire continued, muffled by the thick walls.

Avery leaned against the wall, gasping for air. Dominic stood by the door, his back to her, listening.

Her gaze caught on a single glaring detail—

The black fabric of his shirt had been torn across his broad back. Beneath it, the tight muscles of his shoulders were exposed, a fresh trail of blood seeping steadily from a wound.

"You're injured."

"Scrape."

"I'm a doctor." Avery's voice steadied. "Let me see it."

Dominic turned his head to look at her. The dim light from the hallway seeped through the c***k in the door, cutting a sharp line across his face.

"You're a psychiatrist."

"I'm an MD. I can handle external wounds."

She stepped forward. Her knees felt weak, but her hands were steady. She found the emergency kit in the corner, opened it, and pulled out antiseptic wipes and tweezers. Her movements were practiced, precise. She examined the wound.

"It's not deep, but there might still be fragments inside. It needs to be cleaned."

He didn't sit. He just leaned against the wall, turning slightly to expose the wound.

Avery stepped closer. The moment the antiseptic touched his skin, Dominic's muscles tensed—just for a second.

He didn't make a sound. He didn't even change his breathing. But she saw it—his fingers clenched, then slowly relaxed.

She used the tweezers to remove the fragments embedded near the surface. Small, shallow—but when they came out, the blood welled up faster. She quickly stopped the bleeding and bandaged the wound. As the gauze wrapped around his shoulder blade, her fingertips briefly brushed his skin.

Burning hot.

"Done."

She stepped back.

Dominic looked down at the bandage, rolling his shoulder slightly. It held.

"That bullet," he said, "was meant for you."