The Monster (Boston Belles 3)

“You quit smoking, huh?” Hunter’s gaze flicked to my desk, which now lacked the usual mountain of ashtrays, cigarette packs, and Zippos. “From one addict to another, let me tell you, I’m really proud of you.”

“That warms my heart,” I said.

“Really?” Hunter’s eyes lit up.

“No,” I deadpanned, looking between them. “Did you get everything you came here for? I have a busy day. It’s called work…” I snapped my fingers, making a show of reminding them “…you know that thing people do to make money when they are not born into royalty.”

“You are about to marry into royalty,” Hunter jested, wiggling his brows.

“Which reminds me,” Cillian put his cigar out, standing up and buttoning his blazer, “there is no way I am letting you marry my sister without a prenup.”

“I’ll sign the goddamn prenup,” I bit out, “but she can’t know that.”

“She can’t know that?” Hunter frowned. “Why not?”

“It’s not the money I care about, it’s keeping your sister,” I grunted, annoyed that I had to spell it out for him, like he didn’t know what it meant to be pussy-whipped.

“You really do love her, don’t you?” Hunter grinned smugly.

“Give us a smart-ass answer and I will kill you,” Cillian warned.

I was about to answer when someone kicked the door down, sending it flying off its hinges and skating along the floor. I reached for my gun in my desk’s drawer, but the two men in the balaclavas were faster.

“No need to kill him,” one said in a thick Russian accent, pointing his gun at me. “We’ll do it for you.”

He shot two bullets into my chest.

Everything went black.

I slipped in and out of consciousness as they rushed me to the hospital. I couldn’t feel any pain in my chest or my shoulder, which couldn’t have been a good sign. Everything was blurry. The white punishing florescent light forced me to close my eyes as soon as I opened them.

In the background, I heard Cillian and Hunter’s voices, and Devon’s.

“Johnny and Grayson are dead,” Hunter said, unaware that I was half-conscious. “We need to take care of that.”

“Troy’s on it,” Cillian quipped. “He’ll clean up the scene. He has people working on it right now. They’re boarding up the card rooms in case the police get tipped off.”

In that moment, I was glad my friends weren’t total dumbasses. I must’ve groaned because Cillian’s head snapped in my direction. The doctor and nurse behind me shooed my entourage away. We must have been heading into the operating room.

“Call Ash,” I tried to say, but even though I could move my mouth, it didn’t produce any sound.

“What?” Hunter reached over to squeeze my hand. For fuck’s sake, what was he going to do next? Cut the cord when I delivered his fucking baby?

“Call Ash!” I roared, hoping my hearing was impaired due to the gunshots and that I didn’t lose my fucking vocal chords.

Cillian and Hunter stopped dead in their tracks behind the medical staff as my gurney burst through the double doors.

I had to stay alive.

I had to.

Not for me.

For her.

I closed my eyes again.

For the first time in my life, I was losing a fight.

“I quit.”

Dr. Doyle and I were sitting in front of each other, filling out charts.

I blurted the words before I chickened out, making the older man straighten in his seat. He watched me through the thick rim of his reading glasses.

“I’m very happy to hear that,” he said finally, and all the air rushed out from my lungs in a desperate sigh. Even though I knew Dr. Doyle had been wanting me to explore more legal and accomplishing means of medicine, I also knew he had his hands full here at the clinic, and he needed help.

“I feel terrible.” I covered my face with both hands, shaking my head.

“Don’t.” I heard the smile in his voice. “I want more for you than this. That time you came to my office, when you found out what it was I did, I knew how passionate you were about this job when you told me about Ms. Blanchet, but I never hoped for you to come work here full-time.”

“But what about Mrs. Martinez—”

“She’ll survive,” he hurried to say. Then, realizing his poor choice of words, he gave a small chuckle and added, “I’ll take over. I have my own ideas about her treatment.”

I swallowed. He was a great doctor. I wasn’t worried about his abilities, I was worried about his workload.

“What are you going to do?” I asked Dr. Doyle, peeking at him through my fingers fanned across my face. The engagement ring still felt heavy on my finger. Strange and foreign and yet like a cloak of security I’d never worn before.

Dr. Doyle’s eyes halted on the huge sapphire ring, but other than his smile tugging wider, he didn’t mention it.