The Surgeon's Debt: Bound To The Tycoon

Elida was sleeping on a couch that smelled like baby formula and stale cigarettes.

Maya's apartment in Queens was small, cramped, and currently Elida's only refuge. She curled her knees to her chest, trying to ignore the spring digging into her ribcage.

Her phone vibrated against the floorboards.

She groaned, reaching down to silence it. The screen lit up the dark living room.

Mercer.

Abraham's head of security.

She went to decline the call. She was done. She was out.

Then the text preview popped up.

Code Blue. He's refusing transport.

Her heart hammered against her ribs.

Code Blue. It was their signal. Not a medical standard, but a shorthand they developed in the first year. It meant the pain was unmanageable. It meant the nerves in his spine were misfiring so badly that his body was shutting down.

She sat up.

She wasn't Elida the fiancée-by-proxy. She wasn't Elida the discarded assistant.

She was The Surgeon.

She grabbed her coat and her kit-a small, nondescript leather bag she kept hidden in her luggage. She moved silently past the crib where Maya's son, Leo, was sleeping.

A black SUV was waiting downstairs. Mercer stood by the rear door, his face grim. He didn't say a word as she slid into the back seat.

The ride to the penthouse took twelve minutes. Mercer drove like the laws of physics were suggestions.

They took the service elevator. The air in the penthouse hallway smelled wrong. Metallic. Like fear and spilled bourbon.

She pushed open the bedroom door.

Abraham was on the floor.

His wheelchair was tipped over a few feet away. He was curled on his side, his shirt ripped open, sweat plastering his dark hair to his forehead.

He was making a sound-a low, guttural keen that she had only heard twice before.

She dropped to her knees beside him.

"Abraham," she said, her voice stripping away all emotion. "Can you hear me?"

He didn't answer. His eyes were blown wide, pupils dilated.

She placed her hand on his neck. His pulse was thready, racing at over 140.

She opened her kit. She didn't need to think. Her hands knew the routine.

Nalbuphine. Diazepam. A specific cocktail she had formulated for his physiology to bypass the resistance he'd built up to standard opioids.

She drew the liquid into the syringe. She flicked the barrel. No air bubbles.

She found the vein in his arm. It was prominent, bulging with the strain of his agony.

"This will sting," she whispered.

She pushed the plunger.

Abraham's body arched, a violent spasm, and then he collapsed back onto the carpet.

She watched the second hand on her watch. Ten seconds. Twenty.

His breathing slowed. The tension drained from his jaw.

She capped the syringe and sat back on her heels.

"You shouldn't be here," he rasped. His eyes were half-open, glazed with the drug.

"You called," she said, packing her kit.

"I didn't."

"Mercer did."

She stood up to leave.

His hand shot out.

He grabbed her wrist. His grip was iron.

"Elida."

He yanked her down. She lost her balance, falling onto his chest.

He smelled of sweat and expensive soap.

"You came back," he slurred, a drunk, triumphant smile touching his lips. "I knew you wouldn't leave the money."

The words hit her like a physical blow.

He thought she was here for the check.

Before she could push away, his hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head down.

He kissed her.

It wasn't romantic. It was a collision. It was angry, desperate, and fueled by the drugs flooding his system. His teeth grazed her lip.

She tried to shove his chest, but he was heavy, his dead weight pinning her.

And then, God help her, she stopped fighting.

Her body betrayed her. Three years of conditioning kicked in. She opened her mouth.

It was a mistake. A terrible, beautiful mistake.

They moved with a frantic energy, tearing at clothes. It was sex as a weapon. He was proving he still owned her. She was proving... she didn't know what she was proving.

When it was over, he passed out almost instantly, his arm heavy across her waist.

She lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to his even breathing.

She felt sick.

She carefully lifted his arm. She rolled away, gathering her torn clothes.

She dressed in the dark. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons.

She looked at him one last time. He looked peaceful. Deceptively innocent.

She saw her wallet on the nightstand.

She opened it. She had exactly twenty-three dollars to her name.

She took out the twenty.

She placed it on the nightstand, weighing it down with the empty syringe.

Payment for services rendered.

She walked out of the penthouse, leaving the door unlocked.