Chapter 3 She was mine now
Elena's POV
I burst out of that door with my legs still shaking. That massage therapist had to be a butcher in a past life—his strength was terrifying.
I rubbed my thighs, which had been screaming in pain last night. They did feel somewhat better, but I swore that wasn't a massage. His hands had kneaded and pressed into my inner thighs, occasionally brushing against the fabric covering my most intimate area. If his face hadn't been so deadly serious the entire time, I would've been convinced he was groping me.
And I'd made those sounds, like some kind of whore.
Fuck.
I scrubbed my face hard with both hands, then dug into my bag for my car keys. Before I could even press the unlock button, something cold and hard pressed firmly against the back of my skull.
Every drop of blood in my body seemed to freeze in that instant.
I knew exactly what that was.
"Don't move, bitch."
A rough male voice came from behind me, and the smell of gunpowder mixed with tobacco invaded my nostrils. I didn't dare turn around, my body rigid as a statue.
"If you need money, I think I have some cash in my bag." I knew it—Berlin Street couldn't stay peaceful for a single day.
Bang!
A gunshot exploded from somewhere behind me. I instinctively covered my head and screamed.
A robbery? Or a gang shootout?
Three men in black suits walked toward me with measured steps. My gaze landed on the Montblanc tie clip at the lead man's collar. I had no choice—staring at a tie clip was better than staring down the barrel of a gun.
The man suddenly grabbed my jaw, forcing my head up.
"Where's the shipment?" His eyes gleamed with a serpent's light.
"I... I don't know!" I forced the words out through my clamped jaw.
"A proper mistress should know these things." The man leaned down, and I found myself engulfed in his shadow. "Didn't you please Dante in bed? Is he so stingy he won't even tell you that?"
A proper mistress?
Who the hell was Dante?
This had to be a mistake. I tried to explain, but the man suddenly released my jaw, turned away, and raised his right hand slightly.
"No value. Dispose of her."
I froze in place, watching helplessly as one of the black-suited men raised his gun, the barrel pointed directly at me. I could even see his finger squeeze the trigger.
The gunshot exploded in my ears, and my heart contracted into a tight knot.
Oh God, I couldn't move at all.
Just as I was seriously considering whether I'd end up in heaven or hell, a spray of blood suddenly bloomed before my eyes.
The suited man's gun clattered to the ground, and he collapsed like overcooked pasta.
An arm wrapped around my waist from behind, and an irresistible force yanked me backward until my back slammed against a solid chest. Heat radiated through the fabric like a piece of freshly forged iron.
I jerked my head up—it was the massage therapist.
"Stay quiet if you want to live." The man held a gun in his right hand while his left arm locked around my waist, pinning me against his chest.
I could even feel his heartbeat clearly—steady, rhythmic, reassuring.
Bang!
I'd lost count of how many gunshots there had been, but I felt the massage therapist's body jerk. His gray-blue eyes looked down at me, and I followed his gaze—my left shoulder was soaked through with blood, crimson streaming down my clothes.
The pain hit me all at once, sharp and burning.
My heart sank.
Shit, I was bleeding.
He frowned and muttered a curse under his breath, then scooped me up in his arms. I sagged against him weakly, my consciousness fading.
Blinding white light pierced through my eyelids.
Too loud.
Can't move.
The voices around me sounded muffled, like they were coming through water.
"Christ, she's RH negative!"
"Severe blood loss! Two bags won't be enough! The main hospital has some in their blood bank—go get it now!"
"But—"
"Get moving if you don't want to die! Don't forget who brought her in!"
A heavy thud echoed nearby, like something had been slammed against metal.
Darkness surged back over me.
My shoulder throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. A rhythmic beeping filled my ears—the sound of a heart monitor. The sharp smell of disinfectant made my eyes water as I struggled to open them.
Above me was a white ceiling and fluorescent lights, the glare making my eyes sting.
I blinked several times before my vision finally focused—a hospital room.
"Awake?" The voice came from beside the bed. I turned my head and saw a middle-aged man in a police detective's jacket sitting by my bedside.
"I'm Detective Moralez. I'm sorry you got caught in gang crossfire. You lost a lot of blood, but fortunately the bullet missed anything vital. You'll need to rest for a while, but you'll recover."
"The person who brought me here—is he hurt?" My own hoarse voice startled me.
"I didn't see anyone when I arrived, but whatever you need, stay away from that area for now." The detective stood and left a business card. "Call me if you remember anything."
"Oh, by the way, your car's been dropped off at the hospital—don't worry about it."
The door closed behind him with a dull click.
Something felt deeply off, but my head swam relentlessly—probably from blood loss. Maybe I was asking too much.
I looked at my shoulder—heavily bandaged, the dressing thick enough that I could feel the weight of it. My arm felt stiff and sore when I tried to move it.
I checked my phone and saw it was nearly dinnertime.
I needed to get home.
A nurse appeared in the doorway just as I was trying to sit up. "Miss, you need to stay in bed. You've lost a significant amount of blood and—"
"I'm fine." I cut her off, swinging my legs over the side of the bed despite the wave of dizziness that hit me. "I need to go home."
"The doctor hasn't cleared you for discharge yet. You should rest at least another day for observation—"
"I'll take responsibility for myself." I stood up, gripping the bed rail for support until the room stopped spinning. "I'm leaving."
The nurse looked like she wanted to argue, but something in my expression must have stopped her. She pressed her lips together and handed me a clipboard.
"Sign here. Against medical advice."
I scrawled my signature and grabbed my jacket from the chair. A jacket should cover it, though I'd have to be careful not to jar it.
The walk from the hospital exit to my car felt longer than usual, each step sending a faint twinge through my shoulder.
I just hoped mother wouldn't ask why I was moving so carefully or wearing a long jacket in this heat.
On the drive home, I stopped by the pet shop downstairs, planning to pick up some jerky for Bobby, the neighbor's golden retriever—such a good boy, he fetched the neighbor lady's newspaper in the morning and grabbed mine too.
When I pulled the car to a stop, I was about to walk in when I saw Sabrina through the glass window.
She stood at the counter with her back to me, holding a leash in her hand.
I followed the leash downward with my eyes and saw a person on all fours on the floor, shirtless, wearing a thick black leather collar around his neck with a small silver tag dangling from it. The leash was clipped to that collar.
My stomach lurched violently.
Sabrina's voice drifted through the half-open door. "Is this dog food suitable for his breed? I need smaller kibble—if it's too hard, he can't digest it."
After the shop assistant handed her a bag, Sabrina bent down and ran her hand through the person's hair, the gesture identical to petting an actual dog.
"Good boy. You'll have something delicious soon."
"Woof!"
The dog—no, the man—lifted his head and nuzzled her hand, and his face came into full view.
A face I'd once loved deeply, but now loathed and found revolting.
Acid rose in my throat. I bent over sharply, one hand braced against a nearby tree, my stomach contracting violently as I dry-heaved.
