THE DEVIL’S ON CALL

Phantom On The Board

For the past week, I had been waking up with the distinct, unsettling sensation that I was not alone.

It was a light, lingering presence, like a current of displaced air settling over my skin just before my eyes cracked open. Every morning, the feeling was the same: an eerie, faint echo vibrating in the corners of my mind, whispering that someone had been standing over me while I was consumed by sleep.

I rarely dreamed of anything. When my mind did drift into the dark, it usually dragged me back to the horrific, twisted metal and shattered glass of my parents' car crash…the screaming tires, the smell of burning rubber, the cold realization that they were gone. But lately, the nightmares had been replaced by a strange, hazy fog. I felt as if I were having dreams I couldn't remember, leaving behind nothing but a phantom warmth against my jaw and the distinct, conflicting scents of cedarwood, expensive leather, and clean linen.

I sat up, shaking the disorientation from my head, and forced myself out of bed. I couldn't afford to let my mind play tricks on me. Paranoia was a luxury for people who weren't trying to outsmart psychopaths.

I showered, letting the steaming water wash away the lingering cobwebs of sleep, and pulled on a fresh pair of dark trousers and a soft knit sweater. Before heading to the medical wing, I made a sharp detour toward the kitchen. I needed coffee, and I needed it desperately.

Back when I was pulling grueling thirty six hour shifts at the hospital, I thought I knew what good coffee was. I thought the premium espresso blends from the café across the street were the pinnacle of caffeine. But Silvia’s coffee was on an entirely different level rich, dark, and strong enough to jump start a dead pulse.

The walk to the kitchen usually took a minute or two, three, or even five, depending entirely on the pace you were walking and how many labyrinthine corridors you decided to navigate. It had been two full weeks since the Starkov twins had ripped me from my life, and I still hadn't gotten used to the sheer massiveness of this estate. It was beautiful, yes, but it was a hollow, eerie kind of beauty. The ceilings were too high, the marble too polished, the silence too thick. It felt as if at every sharp turn I took, someone was waiting in the shadows, ready to jump my bones or drag me into a cage.

When I finally reached the threshold of the kitchen, the rich aroma of roasted coffee beans and sizzling garlic met me. Silvia was working the stove as usual, her movements practiced, precise, and entirely unbothered by the world outside. Rowena was leaning against the marble kitchen island beside her, leaning in close and muttering something animatedly in low, rapid Russian. Silvia’s face remained a mask of pure, unadulterated disinterest, her focus entirely dedicated to the pan in front of her.

"Oh, you’re up!" Rowena said immediately, her bright eyes snapping to me the moment I stepped into the room.

"Yeah," I replied, offering a faint, tired nod as I walked over to the island. "I have a few stitches to remove today, and hopefully, it will be just that."

The past two weeks had been absolutely brutal. I was a trained trauma surgeon I had worked in underfunded ERs and a literal illegal basement clinic so I shouldn't be complaining about a heavy workload. But I had never in my life met men so utterly careless, reckless, and completely unbothered about their own survival. I had stitched, sewed, bandaged, and patched up almost every single guard in this house at least three times in fourteen days.

It was getting ridiculous. Did these idiots think I was some kind of magical healer? Did the entire security detail collectively decide, 'Oh, wow, we have a live in doctor at home now, let's go absolutely crazy and get shot and stabbed for fun'? It felt like a sick joke.

I reached for the ceramic pot on the island, pouring myself a steaming cup of dark coffee, and slid onto one of the high leather stools.

Silvia remained completely focused on her cooking. Over the last fortnight, I had learned that Silvia loved her silence when she was at the stove; she deeply despised being interrupted with mindless small talk or kitchen gossip. Most times, I just sat down quietly, sipping my coffee and waiting for her to address me first. It was a silent respect she appreciated.

Rowena, on the other hand, was the polar opposite. She was incredibly talkative, a constant stream of energy in a house built on cold intimidation. She always had something to say, whether it was a critique of my medical workspace, a vague story about her administrative job within the syndicate, or a complaint about the weather. She would talk about anything in general well, except for Ivan and Lev.

Yet, thanks to Rowena’s loose tongue, I had been able to gather a few vital pieces of information about my situation. Through her casual references to local landmarks, I had confirmed that I was clearly in an entirely different city, hundreds of miles away from my basement clinic. I had also managed to subtly map out the rotation and formation of the guards surrounding the residential wing by asking her about her "daily commute" through the security checkpoints.

But whenever I tried to guide the conversation toward the twins, Rowena became an expert at avoidance. If I asked about their schedules or their past, she would instantly deflect, making small, dismissive jokes about how they were practically the same terrifying person written in two different fonts, so what was there to really talk about? Sincerely, her avoidance only made me more deeply curious about the psychological dynamic between those two brothers.

"So, any plans today?" I asked casually, taking a slow sip of my coffee, hoping to fish for another piece of the puzzle.

"Nothing much," Rowena sighed, twisting a strand of her blonde hair around her finger. "Just running some dry cleaning and bank errands for the twins. And oh, I plan on going shopping later this afternoon. There is this gorgeous new boutique that just opened in town too bad you can't come with me. The fabrics are supposed to be incredible."

She kept going, launching into a detailed description of the city's fashion district, and I just kept nodding along, my mind drifting.

Her words struck a bizarre, ironic chord in my chest. I thought about how funny it was that if I actually wanted to go luxury shopping right now, I could easily afford it. For the first time in my adult life, I wasn't drowning. The twins were keeping their word about my corporate terms. I was getting paid an astronomical hourly wage, all of my past due bills were completely sorted out, and most importantly, Kirill had confirmed that Leo was receiving the absolute highest tier of oncology treatment available.

I was a prisoner, yes, but I was a wealthy one. The golden handcuffs were exceptionally heavy.

"Are you even listening to me?" Rowena asked, her voice breaking through my thoughts as she reached over and lightly tugged the sleeve of my oversized knit cardigan.

I blinked, nodding frantically. "Yes, sorry. Just thinking about the clinic."

"I was saying, maybe we could ask them for permission to let you go out with me next time," Rowena said, her eyes lighting up with genuine excitement. "Just for an hour or two. A little fresh air."

The mere thought of asking for permission from those two idiotic, arrogant men made my blood instantly boil. Permission. What was I, five years old? Did I need a signed hall pass from the local mafia lords just to look at a clothing rack? The fury roared in my chest, a violent reminder of the cage I was trapped in.

But yet, this was my current reality. This was the game I had chosen to play. I had to keep pretending to be the good, obedient, little docile doctor. I had to swallow the pride that tasted like ash in my mouth. I hated it. I absolutely hated looking at their smug, handsome faces every day. The only bearable thing about this entire godforsaken estate was the quiet comfort of Silvia and the bright chatter of Rowena.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Ro," I said softly, staring into the dark depths of my coffee. "I don't think they're fond of letting their investments wander into public boutiques."

"Are you sure?" Rowena pressed, leaning closer across the marble. "I actually think Lev might say yes, you know since he—"

"Rowena," Silvia’s sharp, authoritative voice cut through the air like a butcher's knife, instantly interrupting her.

We both turned. Silvia was staring at Rowena, her eyes narrow and hard, her wooden spoon hovering over the stove. "I called you into this kitchen to help me prep the vegetables, not to sit around and spread mindless gossip."

I looked between the two of them, my medical instincts immediately flaring. The atmosphere in the room had shifted in a millisecond. The tension was palpable, thick, and deeply defensive. Rowena’s cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and she instantly shut her mouth, looking down at her hands. Something felt entirely off.

"You said you have to tend to some of the guards, doctor," Silvia said, turning her gaze to me, her voice instantly softening into a polite, warm smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Why don't you be on your way? I'll have someone send a proper breakfast over to the medical wing for you."

I swallowed the rest of my coffee, my eyes lingering on the unspoken dialogue passing between the two older women. "Ummm, okay. Thank you, Silvia."

I slid off the kitchen stool and exited the room, my mind spinning at a thousand miles an hour. What the hell was that about? Rowena was certainly about to say something specific about Lev something about why he might let me leave the house but Silvia had cut her off with an almost protective urgency. What were they hiding? What did Rowena see that I was missing?

I walked toward the medical wing, my footsteps echoing against the marble as I thought obsessively about the encounter. The moment I pushed through the heavy double doors of the clinic, the familiar, sharp scent of antiseptic and bleach hit me, pulling me back into my element.

The makeshift clinic was a marvel of modern medicine, a stark contrast to the crumbling brick of my old basement. It had absolutely everything a trauma surgeon could ever need for emergencies, minor surgeries, and whatever ridiculous combat situations the Starkov empire decided to dump on my lap.

When Ivan had first shown me the room on my second day here, I had been completely speechless. He had casually mentioned that they had contracted a medical supply company to set up the entire facility in less than twenty four hours. I remember laughing and mocking myself internally at the time; I had spent over a year and a half saving pennies and stealing discarded supplies from the hospital dumpsters, and I still couldn't even dream of owning half the high end equipment sitting in this room. My basement clinic had done the job perfectly fine with sheer willpower, but as for the advanced tools that could actually make my life easier? I had never had those.

I walked over to the stainless steel counters, organizing my suture removal kits, preparing the saline flushes, and cleaning out my workspace in expectation of the injured guards who were bound to arrive soon.

Then, a voice rang out from the open doorway, dripping with a low, gravelly amusement.

"Ptichka."

I closed my eyes for a brief, painful second, my jaw tightening as I frowned deeply. Internally, I screamed, threw my hands up, and violently punched the air.

Here it came. The absolute highlight of my day for the past two weeks.

In fourteen days, I had seen, experienced, lived through, and fully consumed the walking menace that was Ivan Starkov. If I didn't find a way out of this gilded cage soon, this man was going to single handedly drive me into a psychiatric ward.

I turned around, fixing my face into a flat, emotionless mask as my eyes landed on him. He was leaning against the doorframe, looking entirely ridiculous. In his left hand, he held a medium sized, beautifully wrapped gift box with a silk ribbon. In his right hand, he clutched a glossy designer gift bag with a prominent, high end logo stamped across the front in gold foil.

He steadied himself, attempting to hold the heavy clinic door open with his foot while balancing his haul, a wide, boyish grin stretching across his face from ear to ear. If someone who didn't know his name walked into the room right now, they would think he was just some wholesome, cheerful, charming guy bringing a surprise to his girlfriend. But I knew better.

I knew that specific smirk. I knew that wild eagerness in his dark eyes. That chaotic, unpredictable behavior was always the absolute starting point for some twisted, sick, manipulative bullshit.

He finally navigated his way through the door, letting it click shut behind him as he marched into my pristine workspace. I rolled my eyes internally, taking a slow breath and wondering if my sanity would survive whatever psychological game he was bringing into my clinic this time.

"Ivan Starkov," I said aloud, my voice flat, professional, and entirely devoid of the warmth he was projecting.

I stared at him, trying to read the frantic, dangerous thoughts racing through that twisted head of his. What was he up to now?