Page 3 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

Fine.I’ll patch this asshole up and then send him on his way.

I spin on my heel and march towards the exam room just down the hall. He follows on heavy footsteps.

Yanking the door open, I gesture for him to go inside. “Sit down and put your gun away,” I order. “I can’t focus if I’m worried about getting shot.”

Anyone else would be scared—and I suppose I am, at least a little.

But not as scared I should be. This is the broken part of me. The cracked pieces of my heart that the animals connect with. The part that’s sickeningly familiar with fear and abuse and violence.

If I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that it’s best to go along to get along. I’ll patch this man up the best I can, then hope I never see him again.

Not for his sake—but for mine.

He brushes past me. His scent invades my nostrils: sweat, blood, and beneath all that, a swirling, musky cologne that makes my head swim.

I wrinkle my nose and ignore how it makes me feel. The less of this man I notice, the better.

I retreat to a cabinet in the hallway to grab a few supplies. When I return to the room, the hulk is sitting on the edge of the exam table. It’s a metal structure designed to hold a chunky golden retriever at most, so I’m surprised the table legs aren’t snapping under this behemoth’s size.

I point to the chair in a corner. “Move over there before you break my table.”

He shrugs, slides off casually, and moves to the chair. I lay out my supplies on the table where he just was. The metal top is still warm from his body heat.

“You’re brave,” he remarks as he settles into the seat. “Or stupid. Most people don’t talk to me that way.”

I scowl. “Gee, I wonder why that might be. Maybe I’m just PMSing. Or maybe some asshole just barged into my workplace with a gun and some very unreasonable demands. Who’s to say?”

“PMSing it is, then.”

“Har de har har,” I scoff irritably. “You’re very calm for a man with a bullet wound. Is this just a typical day in the life for you?”

His head is down, but I can see the square line of his jaw and his dark stubble. It’s enough to tell that he’s smiling. “You’d be surprised what’s typical for me.”

That’s ominous enough to send shivers down my spine. But just like this man’s smell, I ignore them.

Don’t let him get to you. Just do your job, go home, and forget this ever happened.

That’s good advice from myself to myself. I start to reach for his arm—and then hesitate.

It’s been a while since I’ve touched another person. Especially since I’ve touched a man.

Animals are simpler. Their emotion are easier to gauge. Either they trust you or they don’t. If they trust you, you’re safe. If they don’t, you get bitten.

People aren’t as clear-cut. They’re liars. Thieves. Manipulators.

Or, in the case of this man, probably all three.

“I won’t bite, if that’s what you’re wondering.” The man grabs my hand in his and steers my fingertips to his forearm, forcing the contact.

I jerk my hand back. “You might not, but I will. I’m the doctor, so why don’t you be quiet and let me work?”

“I thought you said you weren’t a doctor?” he chuckles.

Who is this man? Barging into my office, demanding I help him at gunpoint, and then… flirting with me?

Hell no.I turn that female part of my brain off. The part that dissects every interaction with the opposite sex, searching for points of connection, trying to find an “in.”

I don’t want an “in” with this man; I want anout. The sooner, the better.

---