Afternoon sunlight spilled across my desk in soft golden stripes, warming the open pages of my textbook. I had been staring at the same paragraph for the last ten minutes.

Recognizing early signs of respiratory distress requires careful observation of both objective and subjective symptoms.

The words refused to stick. No matter how many times I read them, they slipped away like sand through my fingers. With a quiet sigh, I rubbed my tired eyes and reached for my highlighter. My notebook was already filled with notes on vital sign ranges, patient assessment reminders and medical classifications. I needed to concentrate. I had to prepare for another clinical shift tomorrow. Another day of pretending I could do this.

My folded scrubs sat neatly on the corner of my bed, stethoscope resting on top. Usually, seeing them grounded me. They reminded me of who I was, a responsible nursing student, a daughter trying to make her parents proud. Today, they only made me feel guilty.

My fingers drifted to my wrist. The leather bracelet was still there, hidden beneath my sleeve. I traced it slowly, the smooth surface now warm from my skin. Every time I touched it, I heard his voice again.

Come back.

I snapped my textbook shut in frustration. This was ridiculous. One conversation. One night. And yet I couldn’t focus on anything else. I picked up my stethoscope, placed the earpieces in, and pressed the diaphragm to my chest. My heartbeat was fast and unsteady, embarrassingly so. All because of a man I barely knew. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe through it, the way I’d been taught in clinicals. It didn’t help.

A text buzzed on my phone.

Sophia: So? Are you going back?

Me: No, probably not.

Sophia: Mm-hmm.

Me: I’m studying.

Sophia: You’re pretending to study while thinking about the mysterious Russian guy.

Me: You’re impossible.

Sophia: Was he really that intense?

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t lie to her, but I also couldn’t explain how deeply he had gotten under my skin in a single night.

In the end, my curiosity won. I opened my laptop and typed his name, but without a last name, I came up with nothing. The Crimson Veil also had a strict privacy policy and would not disclose any information about its members. On impulse, I logged back into the Crimson Veil guest portal Sophia had used to register us. I wasn’t expecting to find anything, but buried in the visit summary was a line I hadn’t noticed before.

Private Lounge – 11:45 PM – Reserved by D. Morozov

My heart slammed against my ribs. 

Morozov.

I typed the full name into the search bar with trembling fingers. The results appeared immediately. My stomach dropped. Multiple articles about the Morozov family appeared. Alleged connections to organized crime. Money laundering. Arms trafficking. Long-term police investigations. Photos of Dominic in tailored suits at galas, shaking hands with politicians, always with that same cold, unreadable expression. He looked exactly like the man who had gently lifted my chin and called me a good girl.

I slammed the laptop shut and shoved it away. My hands were shaking. This couldn’t be right. The man who had poured me water and spoken so calmly… involved in that? But the pieces fit too well. The way people moved out of his way. How he’d had me checked within minutes. The quiet, absolute authority he carried.

Dangerous men weren’t supposed to feel safe.

My father had spent years teaching me to be careful. To read people. To trust actions over words. He had warned me about men exactly like this, patient, charming, and extremely dangerous. And here I was, hiding a bracelet from a man he had probably been hunting for years. He might even know Dominic’s name better than I did.

I yanked the bracelet off and threw it into my drawer, slamming it shut. My pulse wouldn’t slow down. I pressed my palms over my eyes and tried to breathe. I should be terrified. I was terrified. So why did the idea of never seeing him again feel so painfully disappointing?

The drawer stayed closed for nearly an hour while I tried to study. I forced myself to review my care plan and prepare for tomorrow’s clinical shift. But my mind kept drifting back to grey eyes and the low timbre of his voice.

Eventually, I gave in.

I opened the drawer again. The bracelet sat there, quiet and waiting. I picked it up, turning it slowly between my fingers. It was just a piece of leather. It shouldn’t hold this much power. I slipped it back onto my wrist and pulled my sleeve down.

Not yet.