Page 8 of The Silencer

“Doc is never wrong. He’s been doing this a long time.”

“I dunno, from what I remember, he looked kinda young to me.”

“He is. Young, I mean, but he’s been working on people since he was like twelve. Been doing this a long time. He knows his stuff. He’s a bit of a genius.”

I nod and then lean my head back. The bed I’m lying in is fancy, with an adjustable head. So currently, I’m sitting upright.

So damn convenient.

I need to eventually go home, but when I do, I’m gonna miss this place. I’ve never lived somewhere so nice.

“Want to watch a movie with me?” Angel asks. “I thought you’d have a hard time sitting still and this may help distract you.”

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

He climbs into bed with me, careful of the wires connected to my chest and arms and leans his head on my shoulder. He’s warm and smells like honey.

“So glad you’re okay. Really, Tatum. I was so worried when you didn’t wake up right away.”

“Me too. I’ve never been hurt like this.”

He meets my gaze and presses a tender kiss to my cheek. “You just focus on getting better. That’s all you need to do. We’ll take care of the rest.”

I feel him shift closer to me, and I watch as he turns the TV on.

“How about something really sappy and romantic?” he asks, and despite wanting to roll my eyes, it would hurt too much.

I don’t do romance, don’t quite like it. But I know that Angel does, that he dreams of marrying someone one day, of being loved above all else.

Me, not so much.

I’d settle for unhinged sex against a wall and a quiet escape afterward.

Yeah, romance is not for me.

“Hm, well, Tatum, you seem to be healing really well,” Doc says, his stethoscope perched around his broad shoulders. Like I told Angel yesterday, he’s younger than I expected a mafia doctor to be. Maybe early forties, with a sleek suit and glasses perched on his nose. He could have easily walked off a modeling catalogue.

“Thanks, Doc. Seems to be all your doing,” I say with a small, slightly flirtatious smile.

His eyes flash to mine, and I wink at him. Well, I try to. I don’t know if I succeed. My right eye is still bruised and half shut, the other is okay though. At least half my face looks alright.

I glance the other way and see that Anthony is perched in his chair again, looking murderous. He always looks that way, I guess.

It does things to my libido.

It seems I have a thing for dangerous men.

I look lower and see that his white sleeves are stained red, and I feel my dick jump in my sweatpants.

Seems my libido is very on board with whatever that means.

And it’s really not my fault. He’s sitting there, his thighs spread in those neatly pressed slacks, a tumbler of some kind of liquid in his hand. He looks like sex personified, all dark and angry. I wonder if he fucks like he looks. It would be rough and brutal. My ass would surely take a beating, and I would be so here for it.

My heart rate picks up as I think about it—me, ass up on his bed, just waiting for him to fuck me.

The beeping on the machine ratches up as my mind wanders, and I feel my cheeks heat in recognition.

Doc glances at me, catching where my gaze is, and his lips twitch.