Chapter Three

I sat up, my wrists throbbing beneath the bandages. The clock on the nightstand read 3:47 AM. The building was quiet, though I could hear the occasional sound of footsteps or distant voices.

I couldn't stay in this room. Couldn't sit still with my thoughts eating me alive.

I stood and opened the door, stepping into the hallway. Most of the lights had been dimmed for the night, casting everything in a soft glow. I wasn't sure where I was going—maybe to find Nina and ask for something stronger to help me sleep, or maybe just to walk until exhaustion overtook me.

As I passed one of the rooms with a partially open door, I heard a sharp intake of breath. A muffled curse.

I paused, peering through the gap.

The Boss sat in a chair facing away from the door, shirtless, his muscular back exposed. And that's when I saw the damage, a deep gash across his shoulder blade, still bleeding, and what looked like burns on his ribs. He was trying to reach behind himself to clean the shoulder wound, his face contorted with pain and frustration.

The medical supplies were laid out on a table beside him, gauze, antiseptic, surgical tape, but he couldn't reach the injury properly. Every time he twisted, the wound stretched and bled more.

I should have walked away. Should have given him privacy. Should have called for Nina.

Instead, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

"You're going to make that worse," I said quietly.

He jerked around, reaching for something—a weapon, I realized, before he saw it was just me. His hand relaxed, but tension remained in his shoulders.

"You should be resting," he said, his voice rough.

"So should you." I moved closer, eyeing the poorly accessible wound. "But clearly, neither of us is very good at following orders."

He studied me for a long moment, and I could see him weighing his options. 

"Let me help," I offered, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounded. "Please. You saved my life tonight. The least I can do is make sure you don't bleed out because you're too stubborn to ask for help."

A muscle ticked in his jaw. For a second, I thought he'd refuse. Then he sighed and turned back around, presenting his injured back to me.

"Fine. But make it quick."

I picked up the supplies and moved behind him, assessing the damage. The gash was deep but clean, probably from a knife. The burns looked like rope burn, friction injuries from something rough.

"This is going to hurt," I warned, echoing Nina's earlier words to me.

"I've had worse."

I believed him. This man’s back was a map of old scars, some thin and surgical, others jagged and violent. This man had seen battle many times before tonight.

I poured antiseptic onto gauze and pressed it to the wound. He tensed but didn't make a sound, his muscles going rigid under my touch. My hands shook slightly, from exhaustion, nerves, or the surreal intimacy of this moment; I wasn't sure.

"How did you know?" I asked quietly, needing to fill the silence. "How did you know where to find me?"

"We have our sources," he replied, his voice tight with pain. "When we heard about the kidnapping, I decided to intervene."

"Why? You don't know me."

He was quiet for a moment while I applied antibiotic ointment to the cleaned wound. "I know enough. The Whiter family has a... complicated reputation in Notch City. But you?" He paused. "Word is you're different from the rest of them."

I wasn't sure how to respond to that. My family was one of the oldest names in Notch City society—old money, old scandals, old grudges. My father had married my stepmother within a year of my mother's death, and she'd spent the last decade systematically turning him against me while elevating her own daughter.

I began carefully placing butterfly bandages to close the gash, pulling the edges of skin together. "This needs stitches. Professional ones."

"It'll hold."

Stubborn man.

I secured the bandages with surgical tape and then moved on to the burns on his ribs. These were easier to reach, though they looked painful. As I worked, I became acutely aware of how close we were, how warm his skin was under my fingertips, how his breathing changed when I touched particularly tender spots.

Up close, I could see more details, the strong line of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead, the intensity in his eyes when he'd looked at me. There was something magnetic about him, something that went beyond just gratitude for being saved.

"You're good at this," he said, breaking the silence.

"My mother was a nurse before she married my father. She used to patch me up when I got hurt as a kid. Taught me the basics." I hadn't thought about those memories in years. "She died when I was twelve."

"I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago." I finished bandaging the burns and stepped back, surveying my work. "There. You'll live."

He rolled his shoulders experimentally, testing the bandages. Then he stood and turned to face me, and for the first time, we were truly looking at each other. 

He was taller than I'd realized, and standing this close, I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. There was something in those dark eyes I couldn't quite read. 

"Thank you," he said, his voice softer than before.

"We're even now," I replied, though we both knew that wasn't true. A few bandages didn't balance the scales of a life saved.

He reached for a clean shirt hanging on the back of the chair, expensive fabric, I noticed, probably custom-made, and pulled it on carefully, mindful of his injuries. "You should get back to your room. Get some sleep while you can."

"What happens in the morning?"

"In the morning, I'll make sure you get home safely. After that..." He paused, studying my face. "After that, you go back to your life. Forget this place, forget tonight, forget us."

Forget. As if that were possible.

As if I could ever forget the man who pulled me back from the edge, who showed me that even in the darkest moment, someone could choose to save me.

Even if that someone was a stranger, and not the man who'd promised to love me forever.

I nodded and turned to leave. At the door, I paused and looked back. He had sat down again, his head bowed, exhaustion evident in every line of his body. Even injured and tired, something was commanding about him, something that spoke of power and control.

"I don't even know your name," I said softly.

He looked up, and something flickered across his face—hesitation, perhaps, or calculation. For a moment, I thought he wouldn't answer.

"You don't need to know my name," he finally said. "By tomorrow, we'll be strangers again."