The Bratva’s Locked Up Love by Jagger Cole

9

Quinn

My breath catchesin my throat. When the door closes, the sound is like the thud of judge’s gavel—the final nail in my sentencing.

I frown, shaking my head. I’ve been hanging out with June too much. Her dramatics are rubbing off on me, bad. But still, quite suddenly, I’m aware that I may have jumped a little bit too enthusiastically into the deep end here.

Slowly, I turn to eye him. My eyes fall to the binds holding his wrists and ankles to the edges of the operating table. That should comfort me. But seeing as the last two times he was restrained he managed to touch me, it doesn’t.

I decide to gloss right over the excitement that thinking of those two times brings up in me. Because that would unprofessional.

And yet, “professional” me also seems to have a really hard time stopping my eyes from roving over his bare torso—over his bare chest and abs, his tattoo ink and scars. When my gaze reaches his face though, I suddenly gasp and turn away quickly when I realize he’s staring right at me—at me, staring at him hungrily. Like a professional. Yeah right.

I swallow and clear my throat. “So,” I say, smiling weakly. “How did you manage this this time?”

Maksim grins. “Just lucky. I’m a popular guy in here.”

“Making friends left and right,” I mutter. I drag a surgical cart over and drop my bag onto it. I start to pull out medical supplies and pull gloves on. I turn, frowning as I lean over him. But I’m aware of his gaze following mine down to his sides.

I frown as I inspect the fresh wounds. Christ, that’s a bad one.

Same as last time, I’ve skimmed the report on the way down here from the farm. Once again, he was involved in an altercation with three other inmates. Though the details on how exactly a maximum security inmate managed to find himself alone with three other inmates in an unused, never finished shower facility—let alone out of his cage at all—seem to be blurry.

If not non-existent.

It seems the whole thing played out the same as last time, again. Three of them jumped him, and got some good hits in. But same as before, the three others are dead. What’s different this time, is that Maksim was apparently… I tremble.

He was handcuffed and in leg irons. He killed three armed men with his hands literally tied behind his back, unable to run.

My eyes drop back to the gorgeous, dangerous man on the table in front of me. Who the fuck is this guy?

I glance at the wound again. Frowning, I lower my head and wince. Christ, there’s a piece of shank still stuck in him.

“How bad is it?”

“You’ve got a souvenir still stuck in you.”

He frowns. “That doesn’t sound pleasant.”

“I doubt it feels pleasant,” I mutter. I purse my lips as I reach for it with gloved fingers. “This may hurt.”

I don’t know why I’m still surprised when he doesn’t even flinch as I pull the piece of metal from his ribs. I press gauze to it and inspect the rest of him. It’s mostly surface cuts that won’t need stitches aside from cosmetically. But… my eyes sweep him.

The man is already a tapestry of scars and ink. I’m not sure he cares much about some new thin white lines on his skin.

I move to his other side and frown. There’s another gash here. That’s where the blood is mostly coming from. This one will need to be stitched.

“Lucky you,” I murmur as I pull out my kit. “More thread.”

He smirks. “You’re certainly getting practice in.”

I lean close as I deftly close him up. Then I go back to the puncture wound to clean that out. Same as before, the man hardly flinches as I wash it with antiseptic and start to stitch.

“Sorry if I offended, by the way.”

Maksim arches a brow. “With?”

“The Soviet gulag thing.”

He smirks. “You were not wrong. Whatever this place is, it is not a gulag. I would know.” He shrugs. “And the Soviet era is before my time.” His dark, dangerous eyes seem downright playful as they slide up to mine. “I am older than you… but I am not that old.”

I bite my lip. Why does this basic conversation with a patient feel like I’m flirting?

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-four.”

So he’s twelve years older than me. I groan and roll my eyes at myself. Yeah, that’s why this is something that shouldn’t be pursued; our age difference. Not… ya know, the fact that he’s a political prisoner in the world’s most dangerous jail? That he’s a foot and a half taller and maybe a hundred fifty pounds of tattoo and scar covered muscle bigger? That he’s killed six men in here with his bare hands?

I am ridiculous.

“You were out, having fun.”

I startle, realizing I’ve zoned out while carefully stitching up the puncture wound.

“What?”

Maksim looks up at me curiously with those piercing, core-quivering dark eyes.

“You were out.”

I frown. “No, I wasn’t.”

“You’re wearing makeup, and a skirt.”

I blush, swallowing quickly.

“I just didn’t expect to be called in tonight.”

“Sorry to ruin your night.”

I shrug. “Oh, you’re fine. Not like you jumped yourself, right?”

He smirks. “I hope your boyfriend will get over it.”

I roll my eyes, feeling my cheeks burn. Is this flirting? It kind of feels like flirting. Or I’m so god-fucking-awful at flirting and men in general that a psychotically dangerous inmate in this place just talking to me feels like flirting.

“No boyfriend,” I say quickly.

“Husband?”

I blush. “Oh, sure.”

He chuckles

“You?” I fire back.

Maksim just holds my gaze, his eyes haunting mine.

“No,” he growls with a shake of his head.

I smile nervously and glance back to the task at hand.

“What are you doing in a place like this?” He suddenly grunts.

I tremble at the roughness of his voice. God, why does his voice do this to me?

“Well, I’m a doctor?”

“And there are plenty of hospitals out there that are not full of men like me.”

My lips thin. “It’s a long story.”

It’s not that long. My father is a militaristic, overbearing dick who needs to control everything and everyone around me and locked me into a government contract working for his for-profit secret prison. That’s about the full elevator pitch.

I finish my stitches and tie them off. Then I start to apply the dressing.

“Do you enjoy working in a place like this?”

I shrug as I glance up from the bandages. “Of course. It lets me do what I love—“

“Honestly, Doctor.”

I twist my lips. Goddamnit, why are his eyes so disarming? Is it all part of his deadliness? Like a boa constrictor lulling its prey close?

I snort. “Okay, honestly no.”

He grins.

“Alright, we’re done here.” I smile quietly as I quickly start to pack everything up. I peel my gloves off and drop them with the bloody bandages into the trash.

“Please try and stay out of trouble? I’m running out places to put the stitches in.”

Maksim chuckles. “I’ll try to make friends.”

I smile. I shouldn’t be this disarmed or at ease. Just like I shouldn’t be flirting with this man… if this is even flirting.

“I’ll check in with you in the next few days to look at those new wounds.”

He nods silently as I turn for the door.

“Doctor.”

I pause, turning.

“Why do you call me that?”

He frowns curiously. “Because you’re a doctor?”

I blush “No, I mean… why not Quinn? I’ve told you my name.”

His face is blank.

“Because I very much doubt you studied for, what, ten years, to be called Quinn or ‘doc’.”

My heart thuds. Finally. Finally, some professional respect in this place. And it comes from the savage, bloodthirsty criminal.

“You can call me Quinn,” I say quietly. “If you want to.”

“What would you rather be called?”

I chew on my lip. “You can call me Quinn.”

He nods. I turn to go again.

“Quinn.”

With a blush and a shiver, I turn back. Maksim’s eyes bore right into me, stripping me to my core as I tremble beneath them.

“I lied about your boyfriend.”

I tense, raking my teeth over my bottom lip.

“So, you don’t actually care if he was annoyed by me having to come here?” I tease.

He smiles thinly. “No, I mean I don’t give a shit about him at all, actually.”

I suck in my breath. I tremble quietly. “I—I wasn’t making it up. I really don’t have—”

“And if you did, I still wouldn’t care.”

His eyes say the rest. He wouldn’t care, because there is nothing in this world, maybe aside from those cuffs on his wrists and ankles, and maybe bars, that would stop him from me. And maybe not even those.

I get all of that with the fierce, hungry burn of his gaze, and it makes my very core clench with heat.

Without another word, I turn, and bolt through the door. Before I can’t. Before those hypnotically dangerous boa-constrictor eyes won’t let me.

On the other side, I sag against it as it shuts. My pulse races. My breath comes ragged. Or maybe I haven’t escaped at all. Maybe his coils are already wrapped around me, and I’m deluding myself if I’m thinking it’s any other way.