Page 11 of The Medic (Dominion Hall #6)

CHARLIE

T he sun hit Charleston like a spotlight, and for once, I didn’t mind the glare. I was riding high, my blood still buzzing from the fight in the North End, from the way I’d left those thugs bleeding on the pavement.

Life felt sharp, vivid, like I’d finally shaken off the rust that had been clinging to me for years. I’d done some good, cracked some skulls, and walked away clean—nobody knew my name, and that was how I liked it.

The only thing souring my mood was her, the woman in red, her scent and moans burned into my brain like a brand. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her—black lace mask, curves that begged to be touched, the way she’d arched under me like she was made for it.

I didn’t know her name, didn’t need to, but she was a problem, a distraction. I pushed her out of my head, or tried to, and kept moving, my feet hitting the pavement with purpose.

I was cutting through King Street, the heart of Charleston’s polished facade, when I heard it—shouts, sharp and ugly, slicing through the city hum.

My head snapped up, instincts kicking in before my brain caught up.

Two guys were going at it on the sidewalk, one wiry and twitchy in sagging jeans, the other built like a linebacker in a puffer vest that screamed out-of-towner.

The wiry one was yelling, his voice high and ragged, while the big guy loomed, fists clenched, ready to throw down.

A small crowd had gathered, tourists and locals alike, their phones out like this was reality TV.

I slowed my pace, sizing them up, the pull tugging at my gut. This was my kind of trouble, the kind that let me do some good while burning off the restless energy that had been dogging me since her.

Then I saw the knife. The wiry guy pulled it from his waistband, a cheap blade that promised pain, and the crowd gasped, backing up like roaches when the lights come on. The big guy froze, his bravado crumbling, but the wiry one was too far gone, lunging forward with a snarl.

I didn’t think, didn’t hesitate—I moved, fast and quiet.

I closed the distance in a blink, grabbing the guy’s wrist mid-swing and twisting hard.

The crack of bone was loud, his scream louder, and the knife hit the sidewalk with a metallic clatter.

I shoved him down, my knee pinning his chest, my hand still locked on his broken wrist to keep him from trying anything stupid.

The big guy stumbled back, muttering something incoherent, his face pale as he realized how close he’d come to a bad day.

“Stay down,” I growled, my voice low, my eyes boring into the wiry guy’s.

He whimpered, his fight gone, and I eased up just enough to let him breathe.

The crowd was buzzing now, gawking, whispering, but I ignored them, scanning for any other threats. The big guy was already backing away, hands up like he wanted no part of this anymore.

Smart move.

I stood, slow and deliberate, letting the wiry guy writhe on the ground, and kicked the knife into a storm drain where it wouldn’t cause more trouble.

My knuckles were tingling, my pulse steady, and for a moment, I felt like myself again—clear, in control, the kind of man who could fix things with his hands and walk away without a trace.

Then I saw her. Through the boutique window across the street, framed in glass like a goddamn painting—Sloane Carrington.

The spoiled brat I’d given a ride to, the one who’d sneered at my truck and walked away without a thank-you.

She was standing there, all silk and sunglasses, her face pale but her eyes sharp, locked on me like a missile.

I froze for a split second. Her gaze was intense, searching, like she was trying to place me, to connect dots that weren’t there. I could see the confusion in her eyes, the flicker of something familiar she couldn’t quite grab. That was my cue to get the hell out.

I turned on my heel and moved fast, blending into the crowd before she could step outside or, worse, before the cops showed up.

I was treading a dangerous line, saving the day incognito like some vigilante with a death wish.

The last thing I needed was Sloane Carrington poking her nose into my business, asking questions I wouldn’t answer.

She was trouble, the kind that came with trust funds and expectations, and I wanted nothing to do with her.

My perfect day didn’t have room for her brand of chaos.

I kept my head down, my pace steady, weaving through the foot traffic until the boutique was blocks behind me. My heart was pounding, not from the fight but from her—those eyes, that moment when she’d almost seen me. I told myself it was nothing, that she’d forget me within the hour.

I needed to think about something else, anything else.

My future, maybe. Medical school flickered in my mind, that half-finished dream I’d walked away from when I realized I’d just be another cog in a machine that didn’t care.

I’d gone back for a semester, learned enough to be useful, but the bureaucracy, the politics—it wasn’t me.

I wanted to help people, not push paper or kiss ass for a degree.

Would the woman in red like that? A doctor, all polished and respectable?

No.

Stupid thought.

She’d wanted me raw, unfiltered, masks on and rules off.

I pushed the idea away, but it lingered, nagging at me like a splinter. I didn’t need a white coat to do what I did. I just needed the pull, the duffel, and a street that needed fixing.

Her face kept creeping back, though—the woman in red.

I could still feel her under me, her body yielding and fighting at the same time, her moans like a song I couldn’t unhear.

I wanted to sink my cock into her again, slow and steady, feel her breath hitch as I took her apart.

The thought hit me hard, my dick stirring in my jeans, and I cursed under my breath.

Get it together, Charlie. No time for getting pussy-whipped over a ghost.

I needed to move, to do something real, to keep her from invading my headspace.

The free community clinic was a few blocks away, a squat brick building tucked between a pawn shop and a laundromat.

It was a place where the desperate came, where I could help without anyone asking too many questions.

Perfect. I’d lose myself in someone else’s pain, drown out the woman in red with something that mattered.

The clinic’s waiting room was a snapshot of Charleston’s underbelly—worn-out mothers with fussy kids, old men with coughs that sounded like death, a few junkies twitching in the corners. The air smelled of antiseptic and despair, the fluorescent lights buzzing like they were on their last legs.

I didn’t check in, didn’t flash a name. I just caught the eye of Maria, the nurse who ran the place like a general, and nodded toward the back. She knew me, knew I always came to help, knew I had vast experience though there wasn’t a degree on the office wall that could prove it.

“Room three,” she said, barely looking up from her clipboard. “Kid with a fever and a mom who’s scared shitless.”

I slipped into the exam room, duffel at my side, and found a young woman pacing, her toddler slumped in a chair, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy. The mom froze when she saw me, her hands twisting together like she was bracing for bad news.

“You the doctor?” she asked, voice tight.

“I’m Charlie,” I said, keeping my tone easy. “What’s going on with him?”

She hesitated, then spilled it—fever for two days, no insurance, no money for the ER. The kid, maybe three, was burning up, his breathing shallow. I knelt beside him, my hands moving on instinct, checking his pulse, his glands, the way his chest rose and fell.

“What’s your name?” I asked, glancing at her.

“Tamika,” she said, still wary. “That’s Jayden.”

“All right, Tamika. Jayden’s gonna be okay, but we need to get this fever down.

” I pulled a digital thermometer from the duffel, along with a bottle of pediatric liquid meds I’d stashed for moments like this.

The kid’s temp was 103, high but not deadly.

I dosed him, showed Tamika how to measure it for later, and scribbled a note for Maria to get him antibiotics if the fever didn’t break by tomorrow.

“Keep him hydrated,” I said, handing her a stack of twenties—enough for groceries and a cab to the pharmacy.

“Call this number if he gets worse.” I gave her the contact info of a nurse practitioner I trusted, a gal who owed me enough to take my calls.

Tamika took the cash, her eyes searching mine like she was waiting for the catch. “Why you doing this? They don’t give out cash at clinics.”

I stood, slinging the duffel over my shoulder. “Somebody’s gotta.”

She didn’t push, just nodded, and I slipped out, the pull quieter now but not gone.

Helping Jayden felt good, solid, but it didn’t erase her.

The woman in red was still there, her body flashing in my mind—soft curves, tight pussy, the way she’d moaned against me.

I wanted to fuck her slow this time, to watch her unravel, to feel her shudder under me as I took my time.

My cock smiled, and I gritted my teeth, forcing the image away.

I was losing it, letting a stranger take up this much space in my head. I needed another fight, another kid to save, something to keep me grounded.

I stepped back into the waiting room, scanning for the next need.

An old woman in the corner caught my eye, her hands bandaged with dirty gauze, her face etched with pain. I started toward her, ready to do it again—clean a wound, slip her some cash, move on.

But as I moved, Sloane’s face flickered in my mind, her eyes through that boutique window, sharp and searching. I didn’t want her in my head any more than I wanted the cops on my trail. She was a complication, a spoiled princess who’d never understand the world I walked in.

The woman in red, though—she was different. She was fire, not ice, and I’d find her again, no matter how long it took.

Until then, I’d keep moving, keep helping, keep chasing the pull. It was the only thing keeping me sane.

I crouched beside the old woman, my voice low. “Hey, ma’am. You okay if I take a look at your hands?”

She nodded, her eyes tired but grateful, and I got to work, the clinic’s hum fading as I focused.

The woman in red was still there, a ghost I couldn’t shake, but for now, I had this—bandages, cash, a moment of good in a world that didn’t deserve it. And that was enough.