Page 4 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

I put my metaphorical “Doctor Arya George” hat firmly on my head. Time to focus all of my attention on mending up this man, whoever the hell he is, and getting him the fuck out of my clinic forever.

The gunshot is just a graze, thankfully. Anything more and I would have had to go digging through the wound in search of bullet fragments or bone pieces. I’ve done it before for more than a few animals, but always under anesthesia. I have less than zero desire to operate on a conscious patient.

Although, if this particular bastard squirms a little bit under my needle, I won’t be too upset about it.

The work goes quickly. He doesn’t squirm at all. Just watches me the whole time with unblinking eyes. When I’m done, I wipe the blood away with a clean towel and grab a roll of bandages.

“Will I keep the arm, Doc?” he asks sarcastically.

I ignore him as I put my tools away. “It’s a glorified scratch. You’ll be back to work in no time, waving guns in innocent people’s faces or whatever it is you do for a living.”

I wrap the clean fabric around his forearm and try to beat back the part of me that wants to run my fingers down his arm.

God, it has been a long time, I think. Way too long. Eighteen months or so, if my math is correct.

I’ve kept myself company when the nights get lonely. But there’s nothing quite like the real thing breathing and flexing and bleeding right in front of you.

“How can I ever repay you?” the man teases, his voice a low rumble.

“For wrapping your arm in a bandage? A lifetime of servitude will do.”

He takes the last bit of bandage from my hand and tucks the tail in himself. His fingers are huge, but there’s a gracefulness in the way they move. I imagine what they would feel like on my skin…

Then I promptly begin reciting what I can remember of The Gettysburg Address.

It’s a tried-and-true anti-horny tactic. I memorized the whole speech in sixth grade and it’s never failed since then in keeping me out of trouble.

Or at least, it’s never failed before. But tonight, I can’t get past“…we are engaged in a great civil war…”before my thoughts turn dirty once again.

“Not for that,” he says as he coolly assesses the remaining tatters of his shirt and then rips it free in one casual tug. “I meant for giving me a place to hide from the men who shot me.”

I can’t help but gasp in surprise. I’m not sure why, but it never occurred to me that someone else must have shot him. I glance towards the door in fright, half-expecting to see a group of men creeping down the hallway, guns drawn.

“Are you being chased?” I demand.

“I was,” he says with an easy shrug. “Might still be, technically speaking. But looks like I lost them.”

A chill moves down my spine. “They could have followed you!” I croak. “You put me in danger!”

“Considering you asked about the Albanians, I have to assume this isn’t your first run-in with danger.”

He tilts his head to the side. His full lips are pursed in careful thought—what little I can see of them, at least. Between that hood, the awkwardly angled lamp overhead, and my fervent desire to forget this ever happened as soon as it’s over, I still haven’t really seen much of his face.

“What do you know about them, anyway?” he presses.

“The Albanians? Nothing.” I answer too quickly and then take a sharp, stabilizing breath. “Nothing more than anyone else, I mean. The news says they are trouble, and when you pointed a gun at me, I assumed the worst.”

“You’re right. Nothing would be worse than being Albanian.”

I relax, letting go of a tension I didn’t realize I’d been carrying.

Thank God.He isn’t Albanian. On a day like today, that’s a win.

“Not friends of yours?” I ask as casually as I can.

“Do friends usually try to murder you?”

I swallow and shake my head. “Not usually.”

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