Page 165 of Wicked Proposal
“N-no,” she coughs. “You’ll—you’ll take me to the cops.”
“I’m a nurse.” I force a small smile. “I wouldn’t harm you. Can’t, really. Swore an oath and everything.”
“Oaths can be broken.”
“No offense, but so can my jugular. And New York traffic isn’t exactly smooth sailing.” I pull out of the parking lot as carefully as I can. “Way too many potholes here.”
“Just… dri…”
Her head sways in the rearview mirror. Her arm wanders away from my body, but not intentionally.
She’s about to pass out.
I see my chance. Before she can recover, I jab two fingers into the soft spot under her elbow. The blade clatters under the passenger seat, stuck between the car floor and the mat.
I’m expecting retribution, but the woman doesn’t attack me.
Instead, she slumps all the way to the right.
I hit the brakes in the middle of the parking lot. Cars are honking madly around me, but right now, I don’t care.
Hesitantly, I reach for her wrist. She doesn’t stir when I touch her. She’s built strong, but her skin is sallow, not as tense and elastic as it should be, like she lost a bunch of weight all at once. The clothes she’s wearing don’t fit her. An oversized t-shirt, a large leather jacket, both sweaty and stained.
When I take her pulse, it’s as weak as they come.
I should get her to the hospital,I realize.I should get her help.
But when I grip the door handle, my hand stills.
She said “no cops.” That’s not a phrase you’ll hear unless a patient’s in trouble with the law, on the run, or has good reason not to trust a uniform. Getting her into the ER would mean questions. Risks. Possible identification.
And I can’t do that to her.
Of course you can,my rational mind snaps.She held a blade against your throat!
But I don’t listen. Instead, I turn the key into the ignition again, pull out of the jammed parking lot, and head for the Brooklyn Bridge.
Rain starts pouring halfway through, full sheets clashing into the windshield like lashes.
I don’t stop driving until I’ve reached my destination.
I ring the doorbell. I wait in the pouring rain, my attacker’s arm draped around my shoulders, her unconscious body lilting to the side, head bowed lifelessly forward.
Then he opens.
Dark hair. Unkempt scruff. A pair of eyes as gray as snowy skies. “Mia?”
“I need your help,” I rasp.
He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t protest.
Just moves to the side and lets me in.
Once the door clicks shut behind us, I let Yulian guide me towards one of his guest bedrooms. His shining Manhattan penthouse turns into a swamp with all the water and mud I’m tracking in, but he doesn’t say a word about it. When the pristine white sheets of his guest bed go damp with the rainwater clinging to my new patient’s body, he sucks in a sharp breath, and I feel a stab of guilt.
There you go again, taking advantage of his kindness. Bringing your messes to his doorstep—literally.
“I’m sorry about this,” I say. “I promise I’ll clean up, but I’m going to need a few supplies first. This woman isn’t well, and I need to?—”
