Under His Protection

Mateo's POV

The airport drop-off lane is chaos—honking taxis, circling cars, the smell of exhaust is thick in the air. I grip the steering wheel. I have a trauma surgery in less than twenty minutes, and traffic isn’t moving.

Beside me, Camila is talking at a speed that should be illegal.

“Dad, listen—Ari is like, actually perfect. She’s so sweet, and smart, and you’re going to love her—”

“Camila.” Stress sharpens my voice. “I don’t have time for this. Get out of the car.”

“No.” She folds her arms, dramatically. “You’re going to the hospital and you’re taking a taxi. I’ll take the driver. You’re not driving yourself when you’ve barely slept.”

I glare at her, but she stares right back. Her stubbornness is genetic.

“Camila—”

“Dad.” Her voice softens, and she reaches across to squeeze my hand. “You love me. Prove it by not crashing into a highway barrier from exhaustion.”

I exhale through my nose. I hate that she’s right. I hate that she knows she’s right even more.

“Fine.” My tone is clipped. “I’ll get a taxi.”

Instantly, her face lights up like it’s Christmas morning.

“I already called the driver. He’s around the corner. Go. Hurry. And Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Be nice to Ari.” She gives me a warning glare. “She’s sensitive. And a little shy. And don’t scare her off with your… intense everything.”

Intense everything. I shake my head.

“I’m always polite.”

Camila snorts. “Sure. And I’m a nun.”

She flings open her door, leans back inside for a fast, tight hug, and then hops out, dragging her suitcase behind her.

I climb out as well, slinging my coat over my wrist. “I’ll see you at home.”

“Love you!” she calls, waving.

I nod, already turning toward the taxi drop-off lane. The trauma team needs me. I need to move fast.

I tighten my coat, lengthen my stride, my phone vibrating again in my hand—another page. Another emergency.

I weave through the crowd, focused entirely on reaching the taxi line—

And I slam into something soft.

Soft but solid.

A small body collides with my chest, and her suitcase topples with a thud. My phone nearly slips from my hand.

“Watch where you’re going, douchebag!”

I freeze.

The word slices through the fog of urgency, stopping me dead. No one speaks to me like that. Ever.

Slowly, I turn.

And there she is.

A young woman, cheeks flushed from the cold, chest rising in sharp breaths. Her hair is mussed from travel, her lips parted with outrage. Innocent. Fiery. Beautiful in a way that is infuriatingly disarming.

Her eyes meet mine—and widen, just slightly, before the anger returns.

I take her in. The way her coat hugs her waist. The slight shake in her hands. The stubborn tilt of her chin. A wild, untouched presence that makes something primitive and territorial unfurl inside my chest.

She doesn’t look away.

“You almost ran me over,” she snaps. “A simple ‘sorry’ would suffice.”

The nerve.

“You were standing in the middle of the walkway, niña,” I say, my voice low, rough. “If you don’t want to get hit, be aware of your surroundings.”

Her eyes flash. Defiant. Challenging.

This is exactly the kind of challenge I don’t have time for.

I check my watch.

Shit.

I am late.

“I don’t have time for this,” I mutter, turning away.

She inhales sharply, ready to retort—but I’m already striding toward the taxi stand, phone pressed to my ear. I feel her. Her anger. Her heat. Her presence. A lingering static on my skin. I shake it off. Surgery awaits.

---

The operation is a blur—high-risk, fast-paced, lasting nearly three hours. My heart pounds with the thrill of precision cutting. When it’s over, the room smells like antiseptic and adrenaline.

I strip off my gloves and scrub out. I meet Diego beside the sinks. He’s the only person here I connect with beyond the formalities of hospital business.

Dr. Diego Sánchez, Head of Cardiothoracic Research, is someone I went through university with and have known since childhood. He has an annoyingly stubborn personality, but I’m the only one who can handle it—which is why we’ve been friends for so long.

“You look irritated,” he comments lightly.

“I was delayed,” I say, reaching for a towel.

“Traffic?”

“A girl at the airport walked into me and called me a ‘douchebag.’”

Diego freezes. Then bursts out laughing.

“You? El Jefe? Someone actually said that to your face?”

I shoot him a withering look. He only laughs harder.

“Did you arrest her on the spot? Confiscate her citizenship?”

“I walked away,” I grit out.

His eyebrows rise to his hairline. “And now you’re thinking about her.”

I don’t answer. The truth is irritating. I am thinking about her. About the fact I was robbed of the chance to punish her insolence.

---

That night, Camila talks my ear off at the dinner table.

“Dad, Ari and I went to the Retiro Park! She said the architecture is brilliant. We talked for hours about her breakup. She’s gorgeous.” Cami repeats her assessment of her friend.

I take a sip of water, pretending attention to whatever cami was saying about this Ari, friend.I haven't even bothered to ask what her full name is since Cami keeps calling her Ari. I am absent-minded. I am thinking only of the brief, fiery confrontation at the airport and my own inability to control the situation.

Later, in bed, I close my eyes. I think of the unknown girl's mouth.

Too small.

Too soft.

Too tempting.

I roll onto my back with a frustrated exhale. This is ridiculous.

Days had passed, but the memory of that girl—the infuriating one with the sharp tongue and the wide, startled eyes at the airport—refused to leave my mind. I found myself thinking about her at the most inconvenient moments. Irritating. Distracting.

Unacceptable.

I sat at my desk, signing off on reports, headset on, maintaining the routine I controlled with precision. My department ran on discipline. Order. Predictability.

A knock came and Elena’s voice follows.

“Doctor, your new nurse is here for the orientation meeting.”

Right. The new nurse. I align the documents on my desk, every movement exact.

“Come in.”

I keep speaking into my headset, voice clipped, issuing instructions to one of the fellows. My stance deliberate as I walk toward the window.

Control. Always control.

The door opens.

I turn.

And my world narrows to a single point.

Her.

The girl from the airport.

The girl with the fire in her voice and the anger in her cheeks.

Standing in my office like fate dropped her directly on my desk.

Recognition flashes across her face — sharp, startled. And I feel it hit me too. A jolt. A breath caught too quickly, betraying me for a heartbeat.

I smother it instantly.

A smirk drags at my mouth, slow and intentional.

I watch her react — the widening of her eyes, the stiff inhale.

She hadn’t expected me.

She didn't believe she has walked into my domain.My rules.My authority.

I end the call and place the headset down with precision, never breaking eye contact.

Elena announces her.

“Head of Surgery, this is Miss Ariana Cole, our new nurse for post-op recovery.”

Her pulse stutters at her throat — small, quick.

She tries to hide it. Fails.

I walk toward the desk, slow and measured, letting silence pull tight around us.

I hold her gaze.

“Miss Cole,” I say, savoring her name. “I trust your travel was satisfactory.”

A reminder. A pressure point.

She hits back immediately.

“It was, Mateo,” she replies, sharp and deliberate. “Though I believe I owe an apology to a rude gentleman I mistook for a civilized human being.”

Defiant little thing.

Heat coils in my chest — not anger, not entirely.

Intrigue.Challenge.Desire.

I step closer, letting the dominance in my voice sharpen.

“I accept the apology, Miss Cole. But allow me to be clear: my department demands excellence. You will be punctual. You will be precise. You will obey every directive without question. Any lapse is unacceptable. Am I understood?”

Her breath catches—

but she holds my stare.

“Perfectly, Doctor.”

Good.

I explain her start date, expectations, boundaries.

She listens, shoulders tense, fingers tight around her folder.

She leaves with Elena, back straight, pretending she’s unaffected.

But the tremor in her hands betrays her.

When the door closes, something charged lingers in the air.

Ariana Cole.

Not just the airport girl.

A problem I fully intend to master.

And she is now—mine to command.

____

I’m driving home when I see her.

Small figure. Dark coat. Hands tucked in her pockets.

Distracted. Alone.

Heading straight toward Calle del Baco.

The worst possible street.

My jaw locks. A cold fury settles in my gut.

I pull over. Hard.

I’m out of the car before I can think.

Walking fast.

Then faster.

A sound slices through the air—

A muffled cry.

My pulse slams once.

I round the corner just as a man drags her into the shadows.

A knife flashes in his hand.

Rage detonates in my veins.

I reach him in one stride.

My fingers clamp around his wrist with surgical brutality, twisting until he drops the blade with a strangled grunt.

Ariana stumbles backward—

Straight into me.

Her body collides with my chest, trembling. Fragile. Soft.

My hand steadies her instinctively, sliding to her waist for one stolen second.

Her breath brushes my throat.

Her pulse is frantic under her skin.

She looks up.

I look down.

The air snaps between us — hot, electric, dangerous.

“Stay behind me,” I command, voice cold and absolute.

Sharp enough to slice through fear.

Deep enough to anchor her to the ground.