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Or maybe that’s the concussion.
A doctor appears—a man with cold hands and colder eyes. His lab coat is pristine, and his movements are precise as he catalogs my injuries. There’s no sympathy in his gaze as he prods my broken ribs and my split lip.
“Multiple contusions, two cracked ribs, possible concussion,” he reports clinically. “No serious internal damage.”
“Fix it,” Wolfe instructs from the doorway. “She needs to look presentable.” His presence fills the room, making it feel smaller and more confined. “But leave the split lip. It suits her.”
The doctor works with mechanical efficiency, cleaning wounds and applying bandages. Each touch is impersonal and clinical, like mending a broken doll. An ice pack appears for my swollen eye, and painkillers are offered, but I shake my head.
I need to stay sharp.
“Strip,” the doctor orders.
I hesitate, my fingers trembling at the hem of my blood-stained shirt. Wolfe’s eyes bore into me from the doorway. Another test.
Slowly, I peel off my clothes, letting them fall to the floor. The doctor documents every bruise, every old scar. Wolfe’s gaze travels over my exposed skin. He is not lustful but possessive, cataloging his property.
Fresh clothes appear—expensive, tailored things that make my skin crawl. Black slacks that fit perfectly, a silk blouse the color of dried blood. Even the underwear is new, delicate things in black lace that turn my stomach. Every inch of me is being remade in Wolfe’s image.
“The hair.” Wolfe gestures dismissively.
A stylist materializes—where do these people come from?—and attacks my tangled mess of hair with professional determination. Water runs black with dirt and blood as she washes it, then cuts and styles until I barely recognize my reflection.
“Sir.” A guard appears in the doorway, tablet in hand. “The package is ready for transport.”
Blaze?
My heart stutters, but I keep my face carefully blank. I focus on the snip of scissors and the pull of the comb.
“Excellent.” Wolfe’s smile is all teeth. “Ensure our friend receives the best medical attention. I want him functional when he’s released.”
When.
Not if.
The first test of Wolfe’s word.
The stylist steps back, and the woman staring back is a stranger—polished, professional, deadly. My eyes are the only thing unchanged—hard and cold as sea glass.
“Beautiful,” Wolfe murmurs, approaching to stand behind me. His hands rest on my shoulders. “Like a phoenix rising from the ashes.”
Our eyes meet in the mirror.
Predator and prey.
Master and weapon.
Creator and creation.
“Come.” He extends his hand, ever the gentleman. “We have much to discuss.”
I take his hand, ignoring my instinct to run. His fingers close around mine, warm, strong, and terrifying in their gentleness. These are the hands that have ordered countless deaths and orchestrated untold suffering.
We move through the building, and guards snap to attention as we pass, eyes carefully averted. We ascend in a glass elevator, the facility sprawling below us like a concrete maze. Each floor reveals a different facet of Wolfe’s empire—training rooms filled with men sparring, communications centers buzzing with activity, and what looks like a high-tech surveillance hub.
This is so much more than I imagined. I thought he was a small-time bully, but Damien Wolfe manages an empire of brutality. The elevator climbs higher, and the view of the city expands. From up here, the streets where I once scraped by look tiny and insignificant.
Is this how Wolfe sees the world?