The rain starts as a whisper and turns into a scream.
By the time the buzzer rings at my private clinic, it’s nearly midnight. Chicago storms always feel personal—like the city itself is angry with you. I’m already halfway into my coat, my notes stacked neatly, my mind ready to shut down for the night.
I don’t take walk-ins after ten. Ever.
The buzzer rings again. Longer this time. Desperate.
I tell myself to ignore it. I should ignore it.
Then I hear the thud.
Something—someone—colliding with the glass door.
I freeze.
My pulse kicks hard against my ribs, the familiar edge of panic licking up my spine. Breathe, Scarlett. In for four. Out for six. Ground yourself. Name five things you can see.
The door shudders again.
I move before I can talk myself out of it.
When I open the door, the smell hits first—metallic, thick, unmistakable. Blood. So much blood.
The man standing—or barely standing—in my doorway is tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a soaked black coat that clings to him like a second skin. His hair is dark and plastered to his forehead. Rainwater runs down his face, mixing with blood seeping through his fingers pressed to his abdomen.
His eyes lift to mine.
Cold. Sharp. Almost amused.
“Dr. Scarlett Vance,” he says, voice low, accented, Irish lilt curled around the syllables like a blade. “You’re harder to get into than a cathedral at dawn.”
“Sit down,” I say automatically, professional instinct kicking in even as fear coils tight in my stomach. “You need an ambulance.”
He smiles.
Not a nice smile. Not even a cruel one.
A knowing one.
He steps inside and locks the door behind him.
The click echoes too loudly.
Before I can react, he reaches into his coat and produces a pair of metal cuffs. Cold silver glinting under fluorescent light.
“What are you—”
He grabs my wrist.
The world tilts. My heart slams. Air thins.
He snaps one cuff around his own wrist and the other around mine with a sharp, final click.
Metal bites into skin.
“Treat me,” he says calmly, guiding my hand to his abdomen. My palm presses into wet warmth. Blood soaks instantly through my sleeve. “Or my men will make sure your sister doesn’t make it through the night.”
My vision tunnels.
Isabella.
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
“Thirty minutes,” he continues, like he’s discussing the weather. “They’re outside her dorm as we speak.”
“No,” I whisper. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” His fingers tighten around my hand, forcing pressure into the wound. “You’re a psychologist, doctor. Read my face.”
I do.
And that’s the worst part.
He isn’t bluffing.
I swallow hard and force myself into motion. “Sit. On the table. Now.”
He obeys, collapsing onto the examination table with a grunt, blood smearing across the sterile white surface. I grab gloves, gauze, antiseptic—my hands shaking despite years of trauma work, despite assessing murderers and rapists and men who smile when they describe violence.
This is different.
This is personal.
I snatch my phone with my free hand and dial Liam.
It rings once. Twice.
“Scarlett?” His voice is tight, already alert. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s a man here,” I whisper, eyes never leaving my patient. “He’s been shot. He—he says Isabella’s in danger.”
Killian watches me, head tipped back, eyes half-lidded, like he’s enjoying the show.
“What’s his name?” Liam asks.
The man chuckles softly, then leans in and murmurs, “Tell him.”
My stomach drops.
“Killian Thorne,” I say.
Silence.
Then, sharply, “Get out of there. Now.”
“I can’t,” I whisper. “We’re—” I glance down at the handcuffs. “Connected.”
Killian’s breathing grows shallow. His face pales beneath the blood loss.
“Scarlett,” Liam says, urgency cracking through his professional calm, “that man is a psychopath. He’s responsible for at least—”
The line goes dead.
“No,” I say, jabbing the screen. “Liam?”
Nothing.
I try Isabella.
Straight to voicemail.
My chest tightens until it hurts.
“Good girl,” Killian murmurs as I disinfect the wound. “You’re doing exactly what you should.”
I grit my teeth and work. The bullet is lodged deep, but clean. The angle is survivable. My hands steady as I extract it, as I stitch muscle and skin, as I fight the tremor trying to tear through me.
Halfway through, his body goes slack.
“Killian?” I shake him. “Stay with me.”
His lips part. Words spill out, slurred, broken.
“Red hair,” he murmurs. “Just like hers… don’t let her die… please…”
My throat tightens.
“Who?” I ask quietly, despite myself.
He doesn’t answer.
The rain pounds harder against the windows. Time stretches thin.
When I finish, I step back, exhausted, adrenaline burning me hollow.
Minutes pass.
Then his eyes open.
Clear. Focused.
Too clear for a man who almost bled out on my table.
He looks at our locked wrists. Then at me.
And smiles.
“Congratulations, doctor,” he says softly. “You passed.”
My blood runs cold.
“Passed what?”
He straightens, strength suddenly back in his posture, dominance radiating off him like heat.
“The test.”
My stomach twists. “You said my sister—”
“Is on a date,” he cuts in casually. “Voluntarily. With one of my men. She likes dangerous boys.”
The room spins.
“You—” My voice breaks. “You lied.”
“Yes,” he says easily. “About that.”
I yank against the cuffs. “Let me go.”
“No.”
He leans closer, eyes dark, intent, terrifyingly calm.
“Now,” Killian Thorne says, tightening his grip on the chain between us, “you’re mine, doctor. And this?” He lifts our bound hands. “This is just the beginning.”