Other than trading my morning shift for a later one with another nurse on our text chain, I don’t touch my phone. I monitor the situation, monitor him like I’m one of the machines we would have hooked him up to if Ant had taken him to the hospital.
His back is covered in tattoos, some of which extend to his sides. However, he only has one on the front of his upper torso: There but by the grace of God go I…
An expression of godly humility, I suppose. But he doesn’t look particularly religious or humble in his unconscious state, dressed in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs.
He radiates power and violence, even lying prone and almost naked.
He’s tall and on the lean side but chiseled with muscle. This is the look Jonathan and his Keto bros are going for when they meet up for early morning sessions at the hospital gym. But I don’t think this guy owes his muscles to regular gym visits.
There’s a feral quality to his body. It’s sharp and tight—like a hungry tiger resting up before its next meal.
I wouldn’t call him handsome. Not quite. He could be if you added even a speck of softness to his features. But no, the face underneath his beard is etched a little too harshly to be called pretty.
Still, there’s something about him that magnetizes my gaze. I’m not just monitoring the situation…I can’t look away.
So, I’m almost grateful when his blood pressure levels off right before sunrise and his breathing becomes more regular. And that means he’s stable enough to move.
That gives me an excuse to tear my eyes away and leave his side to ask O-Blood and another one of Ant’s guys to help me transfer the MC to a real bed. Not the hospital one downstairs, unfortunately—that’s still being occupied by the Chinese guy who’s sleeping off his beating.
The guest room’s better than a kitchen table, though. And the MC wakes up just enough to shuffle between the two Reyes as they guide him toward the bedroom.
Which reminds me there’s one thing my gangster assistants might be better equipped to do than me.
“Can you help him to the toilet before you put him in the bed?” I ask Ant’s guys.
One throws me an aggrieved look. And O-Blood says, “You better hope this puta don’t have no more weapons on him.”
He wasn’t being dramatic. We found another gun in an ankle holster when I cut off the MC dude’s black jeans. Plus, an array of knives inside each pocket of his leather motorcycle jacket, which had RUTHLESS REAPERS written out in gothic letters across the back.
O-Blood and the other guy take the patient into the guest bathroom with twin looks of wariness like, they can only hope he doesn’t have one shoved up his ass.
I’m still snickering at the thought when the door opens a few minutes later.
“What are you laughing at?” a voice asks. It’s gruff, like sandpaper scraping over corrugated metal.
I snap my head up to see the MC shuffling gingerly back into the guestroom.
I jump to my feet. “You’re walking on your own.”
He grunts. “I didn’t need those assholes to do my business.”
Tough words, but he sways in a way that has me rushing forward to lodge myself under one arm before he keels over again. He’s a good half a foot taller than me and heavy, but we managed to get him over to the bed.
“They were only trying to help,” I assure him as I ease him down on the mattress. “And they really shouldn’t have let you walk back by yourself no matter how much you complained.”
“When I give an order, it gets obeyed. Or else.”
He says this like it's a law of physics. Objects fall at a rate of 9.8 meters per second. And everyone obeys this guy’s every order.
But I notice he doesn’t push me away as I help him into the bed where I’ve already pulled the covers down for him. And he doesn’t protest when I make him take a few sips of water after tucking him into the guest room bed.
“You never did answer my question,” he says as I put the glass on the nightstand. “I want to hear the answer before I pass back out like a fucking baby from just one trip to take a whizz.”
“That and the gunshot wound,” I point out before asking. “What question?”
“What had you smiling earlier, angel?”
I almost invite him to call me Amira. But then I remember…
This isn’t the kind of guy you want to tell your real name. Or any personal details whatsoever.
He’s a criminal, I remind myself. Never mind the pretty blue eyes and the perfect body. Look at the rest of him. Rough and grizzled with a hungry tiger lurking underneath.
“How old are you?” I ask instead of answering his question.