Page 9

The gunshot shattered my peaceful morning.

I froze, chamomile tea halfway to my lips, eyes still on Richard, the spider plant's new growth. For a suspended moment, everything stopped.

Then adrenaline surged through my system, bitter and electric. My hand trembled, tea sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

"What the fuck?" I whispered, carefully setting down the mug.

The rational part of my brain, the one with the psychology degree, calmly informed me I was experiencing an acute stress response. The irrational part screamed I was about to be murdered in my apartment wearing nothing but pajama bottoms.

I moved cautiously to the window, peering out from behind the curtain. The street below looked normal. No chaos, no screaming pedestrians. But across the street, on a rooftop, I thought I saw movement. Something that looked unnervingly like a struggle.

I grabbed my phone and dialed 9-1-1, backing away from the window .

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?"

"I just heard what sounded like a gunshot near my apartment," I said, trying to keep steady. "And I think I see people fighting on a rooftop across the street."

"Are you injured or in immediate danger, sir?"

"No, I'm fine. I'm in my apartment."

"What's your location?"

I gave her my address, still watching the rooftop where movement had stopped. "I can't really see clearly what's happening, but—"

"We'll dispatch an officer to check it out when one becomes available," she said, tone suggesting this wasn't exactly a priority. "Please call back if you see anyone with a weapon or if you're in immediate danger."

"That's it?" I asked, taken aback by the underwhelming response.

"We get a lot of reported gunshot calls, sir. Most turn out to be car backfires or construction noise. An officer will drive by when they can."

The dispatcher ended the call, leaving me standing there feeling oddly deflated. So much for emergency services.

A sharp knock at my door made me jump, nearly dropping my phone. I froze, heart hammering as the knock came again, more insistent.

I moved silently toward the door, some bizarre combination of curiosity and self-preservation driving me forward.

I peered through the peephole and almost choked.

My patient from yesterday, Julian, stood in my hallway covered in blood.

His face was bruised purple-black, nose broken and leaking crimson.

His shirt clung to his chest, soaked with rust-colored stains.

Fresh cuts marked his knuckles, and blood matted his hair.

His eyes blazed wildly, something feral lurking just beneath the surface .

This violated every possible boundary. Julian shouldn't even know my home address, let alone appear blood-soaked at my doorstep.

A chill raced through me as I realized this meant he must have been watching me, tracking me.

For how long? The invasion of privacy alone made my stomach clench.

Every instinct screamed danger, yet heat bloomed low in my belly at the raw intensity radiating from him.

He pounded on the door with his fist, making the frame shake. "Open the door!" he demanded, voice sharp and commanding. "NOW!"

"Stay back!" I called through the door, already backing away. "I've called the police. They're on their way."

He let out an audible sigh of frustration. "There's no time for this. If you don't open this door in five seconds, I'm breaking it down."

"You can't just—"

"Five." His voice was deadly calm. "Four. Three."

"Julian, stop!"

"Two. One."

I scrambled backward as he slammed his shoulder into the door. The frame splintered, but held. He grunted, then kicked hard near the lock. On the third kick, the door burst inward with a deafening crack.

Fight or flight kicked in and flight won by a landslide. I spun and sprinted toward my bedroom, heart hammering.

"HELP!" I screamed, hoping neighbors would hear.

I was halfway across the living room when a solid weight crashed into me from behind, sending us both tumbling.

I fell onto my stomach, lungs emptying in a painful whoosh.

Before I could suck in air, Julian flipped me, his weight slamming me onto my back as he straddled me, powerful thighs clamping around my hips like a vise.

"Stop. Moving." He growled, capturing both wrists in one hand and pinning them above my head .

I thrashed wildly beneath him, panic and adrenaline making me buck against his weight.

Yet even as terror coursed through me, disturbing déjà vu slithered through my consciousness.

This position, his weight pressing me down, his hand around my wrists.

.. it was eerily identical to fantasies I'd never admitted aloud.

My breath caught, not entirely from fear.

All those techniques for managing volatile situations vanished under the weight of his body against mine.

"Get off me!" I gasped. "Help! Someone please—"

His hand clamped over my mouth, cutting off my cries. His face hovered inches above mine, blue eyes blazing with frustration and something like desperation. His weight settled more firmly, muscular thighs squeezing my hips in a way that sent an inappropriate shiver through me despite the danger.

"I'm trying to save your life," he said. "There are people coming to kill you. RIGHT NOW. I don't have time to explain, I don't have time to be gentle, and I REALLY don't have time to deal with your nosy neighbors!"

Our bodies pressed together from chest to hip, his heat seeping through my thin pajama bottoms. My heart hammered wildly, fear and something else I refused to acknowledge surging through me equally. Then, to my absolute horror, my body betrayed me in the most humiliating way possible.

The adrenaline rush, the physical domination, the disturbing echo of my darkest desires sent blood rushing straight to my cock.

Within seconds, I was hard against him, my erection pressing against his thigh.

The harder I struggled to think about unsexy things, the more insistent my body became.

There was no way he wouldn't feel it throbbing against him .

His eyes widened as he felt my erection. For a moment, he seemed genuinely surprised, the wild look receding. Then a slow, wicked grin spread across his face.

"Is that a gun in your pocket, Dr. Matthews, or are you just happy to see me?"

I let out a muffled sound of protest through his fingers.

He leaned closer, breath warm against my ear. "I'm going to take my hand off your mouth, but you have to promise not to scream. Can you do that for me, doc? Nod if you understand."

I nodded, face burning with humiliation.

He slowly lifted his hand, fingertips trailing deliberately across my lips in a way that was definitely not necessary. That familiar cocky smirk was back, eyes sparkling with mischief despite the blood and bruises.

"I—That's just—it's an involuntary physiological response to stress and adrenaline," I stammered, wishing the floor would open and swallow me whole. "A normal response to heightened cortisol."

"Sure it is, doc," he replied with a wink, shifting weight to create absolutely torturous friction. "I have that effect on people. It's a gift, really."

He released my wrists and sat back, still straddling me, looking entirely too pleased. He ran a hand through blood-matted hair in a gesture somehow both casual and devastatingly attractive. A drop of blood from his broken nose landed on my chest, and I shivered.

"C'mon, let's go," he said, bouncing to his feet and extending a hand.

I stared incredulously. "Go?"

His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, didn't I mention? There are guys with guns coming to kill you. We need to get you somewhere safe before they put a bullet in that beautiful brain of yours. Which would be a terrible waste, by the way."

The combination of playful demeanor and deadly serious content left me speechless. Nothing in my training had prepared me for this specific scenario.

I scrambled backward, away from his hand. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

"We really don't have time for this." His body uncoiled downward, fingers digging into my waist before he hoisted me over his shoulder effortlessly.

"What the—PUT ME DOWN!" I pounded against his back.

"Nope," he replied cheerfully, already moving toward the bathroom. "And no time to get dressed, either."

"This is kidnapping!" I protested, struggling against his iron grip. "And I'm half naked!"

"It's rescue with style," he corrected, tightening his hold. "And trust me, I'm really not complaining about the view."

Before I could object further, he pushed open the bathroom door with his foot, me still hanging upside down over his shoulder in nothing but pajama bottoms.

Just as we entered the bathroom, the unmistakable sound of my front door being pushed wider reached us. Soft footsteps. Multiple sets. Whoever had entered wasn't announcing themselves.

"They're here," Julian whispered and put me down. He gave me a gentle push toward the window. "Fire escape. Now. Stay close to me."

He yanked the window open with such force I feared the frame might break. Cool morning air drifted in, carrying distant sounds of the city awakening. "You first. I insist. The view will be better for me this way. "

I hesitated, one foot on the windowsill, feeling utterly vulnerable half-dressed.

I took stock of myself: lean but soft from years of choosing books over barbells, skin pale from too many hours in therapy offices, dark hair still tousled from sleep.

Nothing like the obvious strength Julian carried in his frame.

Was I really doing this? Climbing down a fire escape half-naked with a patient I barely knew? A patient covered in blood who'd just broken down my door?

My clinical training warred with instinct.

Everything about this screamed danger—the violence, the blood, his manic energy.

But something deeper, more primal, whispered that the real danger was behind us, not in front of me.

The way Julian kept checking over his shoulder, the genuine fear flickering beneath his bravado. ..

And beneath it all was an inappropriate thrill at being manhandled by someone who wouldn't treat me like a fragile crystal. Someone who might actually give me what Todd never could.

Julian's playful expression vanished. "For fuck's sake, MOVE!"

The bathroom door handle began to turn.

The decision made itself. I scrambled through the window onto the metal grating, the cold steel biting into my bare feet and sending icy shocks across my naked chest. Julian slithered through behind me, muscles coiling and releasing as he tugged the window almost shut.

We'd made it down half a flight when the bathroom door crashed open above us. Voices growled. Footsteps scrambled. Then came the noise that branded itself into my nightmares: the soft pfft of a silenced gun.

"Faster," Julian breathed, hand gripping my shoulder. "They don't collect their pennies for failed missions."

The cryptic statement sliced through my panic.

Pennies? Missions? I'd heard countless patients speak with this same certainty about their internal realities.

Delusions sometimes had consistent systems with their own rules and consequences, entirely real to them.

Julian's conviction didn't necessarily make his statement true, but it made it true to him.

Except... the gunshots behind us weren't delusions. The blood on Julian wasn't imaginary. Whatever world he inhabited included very real people with very real weapons. So maybe these "pennies" weren't symbolic either. The thought sent a chill down my spine as we raced down the fire escape.

At the bottom, Julian jumped the last few feet, then turned to help me. His hands gripped my waist, lifting me easily and setting me gently on the rough pavement. I winced as bare feet hit cold concrete.

"This way," he said, already moving toward the alley.

I followed on autopilot, mind reeling, acutely aware of my near-nakedness in the cool morning air. We emerged onto a side street where a nondescript black car waited. Julian pulled keys from his pocket.

"Get in," he ordered, opening the passenger door.

Reality crashed back. I stepped backward, shaking my head. "No. No way. I need answers first. And clothes would be nice!"

Every psychology textbook warned against getting into cars with volatile patients. But those textbooks never covered what to do when men with silenced weapons were shooting at you.

Or what to do when that same volatile patient made your pulse race in ways that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the darkest corners of your sexuality.

"Julian,” I said shakily, “if you’d just tell me—”

"For CHRIST'S sake! We don't have time for this!"

A shout from above. Someone had spotted us from the fire escape .

"FUCK!" Julian forced me into the passenger seat, my bare back slapping against cold leather, skin sticking to the surface. In seconds, he was behind the wheel, the engine roaring to life under his violent commands.

I caught one last glimpse of my apartment building as we peeled away, taking in the shattered window, a shadow passing behind the curtains. My life receded in the rearview mirror.

As I struggled to regain my bearings, heart hammering against my ribs, one terrifying thought crystallized into ice-cold certainty: the carefully constructed illusion I called my life had just shattered completely.

The respected therapist with the gentle demeanor was now fleeing barefoot and half-naked with a dangerous man who handled me exactly how I'd always secretly wanted to be handled.

And despite the terror, despite the blood and violence, a small, twisted part of me wondered if this might finally be the chance to discover who I really was beneath all my careful pretenses.

That part whispered an even more disturbing truth: I wasn't just afraid of Julian.

I was afraid of how much I wanted him to break down all my barriers the way he'd broken down my door.