Chapter 2

Gracelyn POV:

Before I could even process his threat, the main restroom door banged open. Heavy boots stomped against the tiles, accompanied by furious shouting.

"Check every stall! Don't let him make it back alive!"

The man's gloved hand clamped harder over my mouth. A warm, thick liquid seeped through the dark fabric of his shirt, staining my clothes. The overwhelming metallic scent of fresh blood hit my nose. He had a deep, severe wound.

I stopped struggling. As a cardiothoracic surgeon, my instincts immediately kicked in. If he didn't stop the bleeding, he would go into hemorrhagic shock in less than ten minutes.

Through the dim light, I looked straight into his cold, ice-blue eyes. They looked somewhat familiar, as if I had seen them somewhere before.

Footsteps approached the women's restroom.

My survival instinct took over. I grabbed the cold metal buckle of his leather belt and threw his exact warning back at him in a fierce whisper.

"If you want to live, cooperate with me."

Just like handling a critical patient in the ER, I decisively yanked his belt loose. Hearing the men kicking open the stalls one by one, I pulled out the small bottle of rubbing alcohol I always carried in my bag and splashed it everywhere to cover the scent of blood.

I stripped off my trench coat, exposing my thin silk camisole, grabbed the lapels of his blood-soaked shirt, and pressed my lips fiercely against his.

The moment our lips met, the stall door was violently kicked open.

A blinding flashlight beam swept over us. I immediately broke the kiss, turned my head, and snapped at the intruders.

"What the hell are you looking at? Get out!"

Men are predictable creatures. Seeing a half-dressed woman pinned against the wall, the thug holding the flashlight let out a sleazy whistle.

"Just a couple of crazy drunks getting some action in the bathroom," he laughed to his buddy. "Let's go. The guy probably ran out the back."

He slammed the door shut, and their heavy footsteps finally faded down the hall.

The moment the restroom went dead silent, I let out a long, shaky breath. My legs almost gave out, but I quickly pulled my coat back on.

The towering man stepped back, pulling his belt tight. He looked down at me, his ice-blue eyes flashing with an unreadable, dark intensity. He turned to leave.

"Sit down," I ordered, grabbing his arm and pointing to the closed toilet lid.

He frowned, his gaze cold and questioning.

"If I had a severed artery, I'd listen to the doctor," I said, ignoring his deadly aura.

I didn't have a trauma kit with me, so I tore the silk scarf off the handle of my purse. I wrapped the scarf tightly just above the deep gash on his side, tying a firm knot. Then, I pulled a pen from my bag, slipped it under the knot, and twisted it to create a makeshift tourniquet.

"If you can't get to a hospital immediately, remember to loosen this pen for a few minutes every forty minutes, then tighten it again," I instructed, my hands moving with practiced efficiency.

It was only then, under the dim exhaust fan light, that I noticed his exposed chest and back. Beneath his hard, muscular physique, his skin was covered in criss-crossing old whip scars and a few jagged, hockey-related surgical marks.

The scars looked extremely old, yet they were so brutal that they would never fade.

Sensing my gaze, his back muscles instantly locked up. His large hand shot out, clamping around my wrist with bruising force.

"Don't stare, Doctor," he warned, his voice low and dangerous.

I pulled my hand back as he stood up. He buttoned his dark shirt with one hand, hiding the scars, and then reached out to grab my hand again.

My heart skipped a beat. "What are you doing?"

He didn't answer. His rough, calloused thumb pressed against my palm as he dropped a heavy, cold metal object into my hand.

"Until next time, Miss Wall," he rasped, his voice vibrating in the quiet room.

Without looking back, he pushed the broken door open and vanished into the dark hallway.

I stood frozen, looking down at the object in my palm. It was a custom-made, black-and-gold enamel cufflink with the number "19" engraved on it.

Wait. My blood ran cold. How did a complete stranger know my last name?!