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MARISELA

T he truth was Adrian was right. He did own some part of me.

A part he could manipulate like a puppet string.

Twist and tug until he had me coming back and sitting in this room with him.

Asking for help in exchange for giving him the rest of me.

All of me. Everything I’d tried so fucking hard to preserve.

Everything he’d predicted and I refused to believe.

Which left me with no choice but to cut that part out. To sever that string and leave behind whatever it was attached to. Let the remains rot until they were as lifeless as the tiny bones in the box he was currently using like a paperweight on top of a pile of folders between us.

I thought returning the toe I’d hacked off was a nice gesture. If his smugness was anything to go by, so did he. Until his smirk dropped into a frown.

Adrian saw it. Clocked what I was going to do before my brain had even registered my body was doing it—probably because he was right when he claimed he knew me better than I knew myself.

My fingers twitched, and then my hand closed around a pair of scissors he’d left sticking out of the penholder on his desk.

My arm quickly rising up and just as quickly slamming down.

Puncturing skin and muscle and stopping when it touched bone.

What my poor sweet shadow man didn’t see coming, though, was the fact I wasn’t aiming for him. The handle protruding from the meat of my thigh as blood oozed to the surface.

Usually, a sharp, shallow jab of pain was enough to ground me.

Tiny slices up and down the insides of my legs where only I could see them.

Right now, I needed something deeper. I needed the endorphins that came with it.

And I needed the look of horror on his face.

A look that told me that even after all these years, I could surprise him. Force his hand liked he’d forced mine.

I reclaimed my seat, dragging it closer to the edge of the desk as I kept the scissors suspended with one leg crossed over the other.

Warm fluid continuing to trickle down to my ankle and catching in the opening of my heel.

My shoes were ruined and he’d have to toss the rug.

But it was worth the sacrifice if you asked me.

Clearly, Dr. Lambert didn’t feel the same way.

“Was that really necessary?” Adrian lifted a brow, his attempt at appearing unfazed, but I could tell I’d rattled him.

His eyes jumping back and forth between my face and my lap while mine remained focused.

On him. On his reaction. On the sweat beading across his forehead and how he chewed on the inside of his mouth.

“For me, it was.”

“That’s going to need stitches, Marisela,” he chastised like a disapproving father . I already had one of those, and we knew how things ended with him.

“Then let’s hope your hand’s gotten steadier over the years.

” I gestured to the scar on his abdomen.

The one I’d left there. And by the time I’d dropped my hand back down on the armrest, Adrian was in front of me, snatching me up by the wrist and dragging me out of his office.

Along the hallway, making a left, and then swinging us inside an empty exam room.

He grabbed me at the waist, picking me up and plopping my ass on top of the table.

Muttering to himself as he removed alcohol pads and gauze from various drawers and cabinets before slapping them down on a metal tray next to a sterile needle and a package of sutures.

Irritation tightening the muscles of his back as he hunched over the counter.

The thing was, I could have stabbed him.

It would have felt good too. At least momentarily.

Seeing him so spun up was much more entertaining, though.

There was a reason jilted wives keyed their husbands’ cars.

Men liked keeping pretty things intact. This was just our version of that…

without having to get an insurance adjuster involved.

“And here I thought surgeons were known for being stoic,” I mused, my leg throbbing in the best way even as the blood continued to pool beneath my ass .

When Adrian turned to face me again, the aggravation was gone.

But so was the concern. His grip on my thigh neither rough nor gentle as he grabbed the base of the scissors and yanked them free.

I knew enough to avoid the femoral artery.

That didn’t mean I still couldn’t bleed out, especially once nothing was there to staunch the flow anymore.

But instead of putting pressure on the wound, Adrian stepped back, locking the door behind him as he aimed his glare at me. As wordless as he was judgmental.

“So what’s the plan, Dr. Lambert? Teach me a lesson? Stand there and watch until I bleed out on your table.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, his mouth pressed into a thin line and his pupils dilated. “No, not until you bleed out.” He shrugged a single shoulder. “Just until you’re too tired to fight me.”