ARYA

A SMALL VETERINARY CLINIC-NEW YORK CITY-LATE AT NIGHT

People always ask me why I'm a good veterinarian. Why all the sick and injured creatures that come to my clinic listen to me. Why they love me.

The answer is simple: wounded creatures recognize one another.

And I'm as wounded as they come.

The broken part of them sees the broken part of me and vice versa. Sometimes, that's all the medicine it takes. Just to understand that you're not alone in this world.

I'm all alone right now, though. Not in a "woe is me" kind of way. I just mean that, literally, I'm here by myself.

Everyone else left the clinic hours ago, off to friends and families and lovers and hobbies and all kinds of things like that. But Roxie, the mutt with the broken back leg who was abandoned on the clinic's front stoop this morning, decided she'd forgotten how to eat. So I hung around late after the work day ended to coax kibble down her throat, one hand-fed piece at a time.

She's a scrawny little thing. Mangy, too. But she's got eyes like pools of liquid gold and the kind of happily wagging tail that just never quits. She's worked her way into my heart with remarkable speed.

So, I'm staying late. Like, really late. The clock on the wall reads almost midnight.

I don't mind, though. I don't have much to go home to. Just an empty apartment and some Chinese takeout leftovers in my fridge. Roxie needs me more than I need dumplings.

After almost three hours, she's finally eaten a reasonable amount of food. Enough to get her through the night and help keep down her pain meds, at least.

She's snoozing in her cage now, with that pitiful pink cast stuck out at an awkward angle. But even in her dreams, she keeps wagging her tail. I smile at the sight.

Satisfied with my handiwork, I go around the clinic to turn off lights and lock up. Then I grab my purse and keys from my locker, pull my jacket on over my scrubs, and head for the back door.

Before I get there, though, the back door explodes.

"Explodes" might be a bit melodramatic. But it definitely bursts open with an ear-splitting WHAM! The sound of the slam rattles all the contents of the clinic.

"What the fuck?!" I scream as I jump about three feet in the air like I'm in those old Tom & Jerry cartoons. My leap carries me stumbling backwards until the corner of a metal counter jabs into my spine.

I hiss in pain. But my pain disappears when I see a massive, shadowy figure moving in through the open doorway.

It's either a huge man or a grizzly bear walking on its hind legs.

To be honest, I think I'd prefer the grizzly. I have better luck with animals than with men.

The figure stumbles in, slams the door closed, and leans against it, breathing heavily.

Definitely a man. What a pity.

I'm halfway to screaming, "What the fuck!" again-when he looks up and sees me.

At least, I think he sees me. His hood is pulled forward and low, hiding what little of his face I would have otherwise been able to see in the dim lights. The rest is obscured by a thick beard. All I can make out is the twin pinprick of dark eyes set deep in their sockets.

"Who are you?" he growls. His voice is deep. I can't tell if it's natural or he's disguising it.

"Who am I?" I echo in disbelief. I grab the straps of my purse in my fist, ready to swing it like a pair of ninja nunchucks if need be. "Says the guy who just kicked in my goddamn door! Who the hell are you?"

He ignores my question. "You're a doctor?"

"I'm a vet."

"Same thing." He moves towards me. As he does, I realize how much of his height was lost in his slouch against the door. Standing tall, he's six and a half feet at least, and broad through the shoulders like a linebacker.

The purse in my hand suddenly feels like a pebble. David had a better chance against Goliath.

"It really, really isn't the same thing," I tell him. "There's an emergency room ten blocks west if you need a doctor."

I'm scanning the room for other weapon choices and coming up woefully short. So far, a tennis ball is topping the list.

I might be in quite a bit of trouble.

"I don't want a doctor," he says. "I want you." His words are spoken with a steely calm that sends awareness buzzing into my limbs.

I take a step back, fear clotting in my throat. "Are you with the Albanians?" I ask in a timid voice I hardly recognize. "Because I don't want any of your bullshit mob drama coming into my clinic."

Fuck. I shouldn't have said that.

I buried those demons a long time ago. Those secrets. Those skeletons in my closet.

But the question came out of me totally unbidden. As if I've always known, deep in my heart, that the past I thought I fled wasn't quite done with me yet.

That it was simply hibernating.

Waiting until the right time to come ruin my life again.

For a long time after everything happened, I carried a knife in my purse. A lot of good that'll do you against armed mobsters, my best friend Brigitte always said.

Eventually, realizing she was right, I got rid of it. I never had it in me to carry a gun. Besides-after a while, it all seemed unnecessary. My past had stayed in the rearview mirror, where it belonged.

At least, I thought it did.

Now, I'm not so sure.

The man barks out a laugh. I can't tell if he's surprised or offended.

"Well?" I demand. "Are you?"

He shakes his head. "You ask too many questions. Questions that could get you killed."

Then he rolls up his shirt sleeve and I see the reason for his sudden appearance.

Blood is caked across the rippling muscles of his forearm. When he moves, fresh blood spurts out. He scowls at the pain.

I don't have to look any closer to know what it is: a gunshot wound.

"You've been shot!" I gasp. I wince as soon as I say it. What an idiotic comment. As if he wasn't aware.

"Funny you should point that out," he drawls. "I noticed it as well. Mind doing something about it?"

I still can't see much of his face beneath the hood. Not enough to pick him out of a crowd, at least.

But those dark, glittering eyes... Those haven't left my face for a second.

I swallow past an obnoxiously large knot in my throat. "I already told you, I'm a vet. If you need a doctor, there's an emergency room-"

There's a quick flash of movement. And then he's holding a gun, pointed at me.

"I said, 'Mind doing something about that?'" he repeats. Any hint of a question is gone from his voice.

Fuck me. Looks like my work day isn't over after all.

I stare for a moment longer into the darkness where his face is hidden. I don't know what I'm looking for. But whatever it is, I don't find it.

Plus, that gun is very hard to ignore.

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 an out. The sooner, the better.

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."

"Then I guess not."

He stands up. His chest brushes against mine. I jump back like he's a live wire. I think I see him smile, but I look away before I can confirm it.

This has gone on long enough. He needs to go.

"I'll bill your insurance in the morning," I say, waving my hand towards the door. "Off you go."

He doesn't move. "You're funny."

"And I'll be here all week. But that's not an invitation. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask that you never come back here again."

He whistles and resists the shove towards the door I give him. "You don't mince words, either."

"And you don't take a hint." I push him harder, ignoring how solid he feels beneath my fingers.

Again, it doesn't do a lick of good. With one move, he slams the door to the hallway shut and leans against the door, blocking us both inside.

"I still have a gun, you know," he says casually.

My heart beats faster but I try to keep a calm demeanor. "If you were going to shoot me, you would have done it by now. And if you decide to hold me captive in here, I might request that. Put me out of my misery, you know?"

He chuckles. "You should be more scared of me, krasavitsa."

Is that Russian he just spoke? Whatever it is, it communicated directly with the heat between my thighs in a way that is equal parts awe-inspiring and terrifying.

Not that I'm willing to show this son of a bitch what he's doing to me.

"You ran away and hid from a fight. Is that supposed to have me quaking in my boots, tough guy?"

There's a growl of anger as he crosses his arms over his chest. "Boys stand their ground when they don't have a chance. Men know that you can't fight a war if you're dead."

"War?" I roll my eyes. "What are you, a drug dealer or something?"

He shrugs. "Let's go with 'something.'"

His shoulders are broad, chest tapering down to trim hips and strong thighs. He's the kind of built that comes from a magic mixture of genetics and working out vigorously. I imagine him lifting weights-shirtless, muscles rippling, sweat dripping down his tattooed skin...

Then my fantasy shimmers and shapeshifts and suddenly, it's me that he's manhandling. His large, strangely graceful hands claiming every inch of me as his muscles clench, pressing himself into-

"Time to go!" My voice is high-pitched and strained. A heat has built in my stomach. Almost certainly a side effect of adrenaline and fear mixing with lethal levels of horniness.

Let's be very clear: I do not want this man.

I've sworn off men like this. Men who show up with random wounds and bruises and broken bones. Men who put themselves-and me-in danger.

I'm done with that lifestyle.

But it doesn't seem to be done with me.

The man hasn't moved. "It could still be dangerous out there. For both of us. I think the best solution would be to stay here for a while," he says, uncrossing his arms and sliding his hands into his front pockets, his hips jutting forward. "I'm sure we could think of some way to kill the time."

The bulge at his crotch is like a homing beacon. It takes me three full seconds to pull my eyes away.

"You need to leave," I repeat, trying to reach around his body to find the doorknob. "Time to vacate the premises. You're all patched up and I need to get home."

He slides over and pins my hand behind his body. "Is there someone waiting for you at home?"

"My husband," I lie without hesitation.

Too quickly, he snatches up my left hand and holds it between us. The empty ring finger faces me.

"Give him a call, then," he chuckles, calling my bluff. "Tell him you'll be late getting home tonight. You might be a little worn out, though."

I try to stop from trembling too noticeably. "He's a, uh... police officer. On duty. Out protecting the city from people like you, so he isn't home right now. But he actually has a tracking device on my phone," I lie again, even more unconvincingly. "I'm sure he's already on his way to find out what's going on since I'm not home yet."

"Great. Then I'll keep you company until he gets here. You know... to make sure the guys after me don't find you instead," he says.

He taps his fingers against my wrist before brushing slowly down my arm. It feels like he's flaying me open. Heat radiates through my bones and settles between my legs.

I'm pulsing. Literally, full-on pulsing, like my whole body is one giant, frantic heartbeat.

"I'm serious." My voice is barely above a whisper. My heart is beating so fast it's hard to get air to my lungs. "You should go."

"I probably should. But that's not what matters."

"What matters then?"

He walks towards me, backing me up to the exam table. I'm pinned between the metal edge of the table and him.

His body heat scorches me through my scrubs. His head drops down until his lips are next to my ear. He smells like cedarwood. Gunsmoke. Blood.

"What matters is if you actually believe that I'm walking out of this room without tasting you," he whispers.

A shiver moves down my spine. Before I can answer, the man grabs my hips and lifts me onto the exam table. Without a second thought, I wrap my legs around his waist.

And just like that, my fate is sealed.

So much for a poker face. I've revealed my entire hand.

The man laughs softly and slides his hand under my shirt, the calloused skin of his fingers sliding up my trembling ribs.

"That's what I thought."

My entire body is on fire. The feeling of his warm body between my legs is enough to turn me into an animal.

Suddenly, I don't care about whether this is right and wrong. I don't care about the promise I made to myself eighteen months ago. I don't care who this man is or what will happen afterward.

The only thing I care about is the pure carnal need roaring to life inside of me.

Before rational thought can break through, I grab the man's head and pull his face to mine. Our bodies meld together-lips, chests, hips.

The table is tall, but so is he. Tall enough that our centers match up perfectly. While I reach down and unzip his fly, he grabs the waistband of my scrubs and yanks them down.

"What am I doing?" I ask out loud as I kick off my pants in a flurry of movement.

The man answers by grabbing the side of my cotton panties and ripping them clean off. Effortlessly powerful. He opens his fist and the flimsy material of my underwear flutters to the floor.

The table beneath me is cold, but I only have a second to think about it before he frees himself from his boxers.

"Fuck," I whisper. He's huge.

There are so many questions I should be asking him. So many doubts I should be having. Any normal person would hesitate here and reconsider.

But I'm lost in a haze of lust for a man I don't even know.

His breathing is heavy as he positions himself at my entrance. I don't wait for him to thrust-I pull myself onto him. Our bodies meet with a smack of connection as I toss my head back and revel in how it feels to be filled.

Really, really filled.

If I wasn't dripping wet, taking in so much all at once may have hurt. But as it is, I feel like I could come right now. Right at the first stroke.

The man grips the swell of my hips in his hands tightly, his fingers digging into my flesh, and pounds into me. Again and again.

The exam table is squealing in protest, metal cannisters of treats and cotton swabs vibrating off the table and scattering across the floor from our vigorous pace.

But I don't care.

Break the supplies.

Break the table.

Break me.

If it feels this good to be broken, I'll take it and beg for more.

"You're so big," I moan, opening my legs wider, giving more of myself to this stranger.

He curses under his breath and then presses a hand to my chest, laying me back on the table. I throw my arms over my head and grip the edges of the table for stability, which I need desperately as soon as the man brushes the pad of his thumb over my center.

I arch my back. The table jumps underneath me. The legs rise off the floor for a moment before crashing back down when this bloodied stranger fucks into me again.

"Harder," I beg, desperate for the feeling of a hand that isn't my own. "Touch me. Make me come."