Page 51 of Dangerous Beginnings

For a moment, there’s nothing but the suffocating silence between us. Then, without warning, Aslanov turns the gun slightly, not away from the doctor, but enough to make me feel the weight of his control. His eyes are sharp as they lock onto mine, and there’s an unsettling calm in his voice when he speaks.

“Be a good girl, Isabella,” he says, almost as if he’s scolding a child. “You don’t want to make this worse for yourself, do you?”

My heart skips a beat. “No…I just-”

“Then stay quiet,” he interrupts, his voice colder now. “Let me handle this.” He steps closer to me, leaning down slightly so his eyes bore into mine, a twisted kind of affection lurking beneath the cruelty. “Don’t make me repeat myself. You’ll be quiet now, won’t you?”

The fear tightens its hold on me, and I feel like I’m shrinking under his gaze. I swallow hard, my throat tight, and manage a small, shaky nod. I can’t fight him. Not now. Not like this. Not ever.

Aslanov straightens, satisfied, before turning his attention back to the doctor. The doctor’s breath is coming in shallow gasps now, his eyes darting between Aslanov and me, pleading silently for some kind of intervention. But I’ve done all I can. I’m powerless to stop him, and the realization hits me like a blow to the chest, robbing me of air. I sink back against the pillow, every movement sending pain shooting through my ribs, but the physical agony is nothing compared to the helplessness swirling in my gut.

Aslanov speaks again, his voice low, dangerous. “Now, you’re going to do what I asked. Fix her.” As the doctor works his ways, with trembling hands, on my chest and face, I stare at Aslanov. He’s observing, in the back, deadly dangerous.

A single question pops up through the pain in my mind; who will protect me from him? The answer is painfully clear:nobody. I take in the chiseled planes of his face, the way his muscles shiftbeneath his skin, and the shadow of stubble tracing his jawline. His lips, dark and full, make me wonder when he last touched someone in a tender kiss.

He is impossibly handsome, a paradox of unimaginable evil and staggering power. And he has taken an unsettling interest in me. He returns the stare and our eyes lock. I winch as there is pressure applied to my chest, trying to keep the tears at bay. I struggle to suppress the rising emotions threatening to overwhelm me, and then his voice echoes through the room once more.

“You’re a good girl, Isabella. So brave,” he murmurs, his voice a dark caress that wraps around me like a warm blanket. His words ignite another flare of heat inside me. Perhaps it’s a result of growing up with only an absent parent—developing a need for validation, for praise. Whatever he is doing; it’s working.

Chapter 32

The Choice

Isabella

The doctor’s hands shake as he works, his every movement tinged with fear. His fingers probe my side gently, trying to assess the damage as sweat trickles down his forehead. I feel the sting of alcohol and the pressure of bandages being wrapped around my torso. But it’s not the physical pain that dominates my thoughts—it’s Aslanov. His presence feels more suffocating than the wounds themselves.

The barrel of the gun hovers just outside the doctor’s line of vision, but the threat is omnipresent. Aslanov stands at the edge of the small room, his eyes never leaving the doctor’s trembling hands, as if calculating how many more mistakes he can tolerate before pulling the trigger. The air is thick with tension, and even though Aslanov isn’t speaking, his silence screams louder than any words.

I try to breathe through the pain, focusing on the rhythmic movements of the doctor’s hands as he applies a layer of gauze to my wounds. But the ache in my ribs intensifies with every inhale, and the tightness in my chest is unbearable.

Aslanov steps closer, looming over the doctor like a shadow of death. His gaze sweeps over the mess of blood and gauze, and I catch a glint in his eye—something cold, analytical. He’s not just watching to intimidate; he’s making sure the doctor doesn’t dare fail him.

“How bad is it?” Aslanov’s voice is a low, menacing growl.

The doctor jumps, startled by the sudden question. His face pales, and his eyes dart to mine before he answers. “She…she’sstable for now,” he stammers, voice shaky. “But she needs rest, proper care—this is only a temporary fix. Without a hospital, without more equipment-”

Aslanov’s patience snaps again. In one swift movement, he presses the barrel of the gun harder against the doctor’s temple, forcing him to freeze mid-sentence. “I don’t give a damn about what you don’t have,” he hisses, his voice so low it’s almost a whisper. “I asked how bad it is. Not what you need.”

The doctor swallows hard, his hands trembling as he carefully sets down a bloodied bandage. “I-I’ve done what I can. She’ll be in pain, but…but she should be okay if she rests.” He dares a glance at me, and I can see the pity in his eyes, mixed with terror. “She’ll need to avoid infection, and there could be complications—”

“Enough,” Aslanov interrupts, his tone laced with dangerous finality. He pulls the gun away from the doctor’s head, but the threat remains thick in the air. “You’ve done what you can. Now, leave.”

The doctor blinks in disbelief, his hands still trembling. “Leave?” he echoes, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I-I should stay, in case…”

Aslanov’s eyes narrow into slits, and the look he gives the doctor is lethal. “I saidleave,” he repeats, his voice dripping with venom.

For a moment, the doctor hesitates, clearly terrified of what will happen if he stays but equally afraid of what might occur if he leaves too soon. He casts a fleeting, desperate glance at me, his face pleading for permission—permission I can’t give. I have no power here. I never did.

With a final, reluctant nod, the doctor gathers his tools, his hands still trembling as he hastily shoves them into his bag. He shoots one last terrified look at Aslanov before practically sprinting out of the room, leaving behind only the smell ofantiseptic and the sharp echo of the door slamming shut behind him.

And then it’s just me and Aslanov.

The silence is deafening now, only broken by the sound of my ragged breaths. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat sending fresh pain rippling through my ribs. I can feel Aslanov’s eyes on me, watching, calculating, his presence a cold and oppressive weight.

He walks toward me slowly, his steps deliberate, as if savoring the moment. When he reaches my side, he crouches down, leveling his eyes with mine. There’s something terrifyingly intimate about the way he looks at me—like I’m both a fragile doll and a dangerous puzzle he’s trying to solve.

He reaches out and gently brushes a strand of hair away from my face, his touch unnervingly soft. “You did well, Isabella,” he murmurs, his voice smooth and deceptively tender. “So obedient. So brave.”

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