I stared at the piles upon piles of what Aisling had referred to as cancer sticks, wondering if I was really about to do what I was about to do.

I was.

Fuck it. I took six bullets in my lifetime. I could do this.

I grabbed all the packs and shoved them into four recycling bags, including the pack that was in my pocket, and tossed everything into the building’s dumpster.

Then I went back upstairs and stared at the empty ashtray on my coffee table.

Proving to Aisling that I took her seriously just might turn into my idea of a nightmare.

And so help me God, she better come around fucking quickly or heads were going to roll on the streets of Boston.

My phone started ringing in my skirt’s pocket while I hugged Mrs. Martinez goodbye at the clinic door. Tugging it out, I was surprised to see Sam’s name flashing on the screen. I had saved his number that time he came in with his injured soldiers just in case but never expected him to call me. I drew a firm line between optimism and stupidity, and that seemed like the threshold for it.

What did he want?

“Everything okay?” Mrs. Martinez’s face clouded as she drank in my expression. Her hair had begun to grow again, fluffy and strewn about her head like little clouds now that she’d stopped her chemotherapy treatments. She was feeling better. Sometimes it worked that way after chemo. She opted to stop because her doctor had told her there was no hope for remission. But we now had new hope. She was taking an experimental drug that was supposed to shrink the tumor on her pancreas.

I was feeling hopeful she could live a comfortable life for months, maybe even a couple years.

“Yeah.” I smiled brightly, nodding as I all but pushed her out the door. “Sorry. I just had a moment there. Everything is fine.”

“You know …” She stopped, digging her heels into the floor, grinning. “I never asked you if you are married. Are you, Dr. F?”

I hadn’t given any of my patients my real full name. I needed to take safety measures to ensure my tracks were covered in case things went south.

“Not even remotely.” My fingers tightened around my phone, which kept buzzing. “I’m morbidly single, I’m afraid.”

“Hmm.” She looked thoughtful. “There is nothing morbid about your situation, dear. You will be married soon.” Mrs. Martinez winked. “I know about things like that.”

“You do?” I asked, my smile thin and distracted.

Please, lady, let me answer this.

She nodded enthusiastically.

“Absolutely. I was a fortuneteller my whole life before I retired. Traveled around with Aquila Carnival. Do you know it? They stop every summer just outside the city.”

Aquila Festival was where the most monumental part of my life had happened. Where I met Sam.

“I predicted I’d get cancer, all the royal weddings and divorces, and the exact order of Kate and William’s babies by gender…” her chest puffed proudly “…and let me tell you, my sweet, you will get married and soon. Maybe even to the person who tried to call you right now.” She jerked her chin to the phone I was clutching.

I dropped my eyes to it and realized I missed the call.

“Don’t worry.” Mrs. Martinez rose on her tiptoes, kissing my cheek. “He’ll call again. He has something important to tell you. Goodbye.”

I closed the door after her, frowning at my phone, willing it to ring again.

Sure enough, it did.

He has something important to tell you.

Swiping a finger across the screen, I received the call.

“What do you want?” I put on the most bored tone I could find in my arsenal of voices.

“You, spread eagle on my bed, wearing nothing but whipped cream and my favorite please-fuck-me-Sam expression,” he said darkly.

I did not reply. Responding to his banter would suggest I’d forgiven him.

“I need your help,” he said after a beat.

“You need help … I can agree with that. But it won’t be mine, Sam. I’m done handing you favors just to watch how you screw me over.” I ambled back into my office, pinning the phone between my ear and shoulder as I scrubbed my hands clean in the sink.

“Actually, you seem to have a dog in this fight. Remember that Russian kid from the night we stayed at the cabin?”

“Yes,” I said immediately. Of course I remembered him. He haunted me in my dreams. The liquid fear in his eyes. The way he shook and begged for his life. The pain Sam had inflicted on him when he shot his arm.

“Well, he is right here with me, suffering from a chest wound. Shallow, I think. Things went a little sideways with the Russians, and he got caught in the middle of it.” Sam delivered the information blandly, like he was reading me food options from a menu.

“Bring him over,” I ordered.

“We’re just pulling up in front of your clinic,” he said and hung up.

I prepared the examination table for the new patient as I mulled over how odd Sam was. He’d promised he would court me on Christmas, and I suppose he did, in his own way. He sent me flowers yesterday with a simple unsigned note bearing his name, and a piece of jewelry, I suppose as a late Christmas gift.

But he didn’t cower or beg. Didn’t come knocking on my door.

He wasn’t exactly chasing me. More like speed-walking while taking frequent water breaks. He still had a long way to go. But he was still in training.

A few moments later, there was a knock on the door. I opened it, finding Sam and the Russian kid leaning against the gigantic man I hated to love.

I slanted my head toward my office. Sam followed me, dragging the tall, scrawny boy along. I tried to ignore the acute beauty of my favorite monster. How tall and strong and corded with muscles he was. The deep tan of his skin and those full-moon eyes that always looked tranquil and cold, like a crisp December night. There was something else about him I found attractive today, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

Something had changed, even if it was subtle.

Sam unloaded the gangly kid onto the examination table, and I took scissors to the boy’s shirt and started cutting it off of his chest.

“What’s your name?” I smiled at the boy.

“Ruslan,” he breathed, wincing as he spoke, wetting his lips with his tongue. “Ruslan Kozlov.”

“How old are you, Ruslan Kozlov?”

“Fourteen.” His teeth chattered, and a few acne zits were gushing blood, probably from the stress. He was as pale as snow, and I knew he needed a blood transfusion fast.

“Tell me about the wound,” I murmured, keeping calm as I put on latex gloves.

He did. It was one of Sam’s soldiers who had shot him in Bratva territory—or what used to be their territory before Sam butted in. Ruslan was running errands for Vasily Mikhailov, whom I gathered was the local underboss. Sam came in with his entourage to threaten Vasily, and things got out of control.

“So why didn’t Vasily get you medical care?” I frowned. “You are his soldier, not Sam’s.”

The boy smiled. “Yeah. Mikhailov is not like Brennan. He doesn’t care about his soldiers. He is a real monster.”

Something warm flooded my chest. I tried telling myself it meant nothing.

Luckily, Ruslan knew his blood type, so I was able to call a friend of mine from med school who worked at the hospital and sometimes—on the rare occasion I asked him—provided me with blood units for transfusion. I sent Sam to pick it up with a cooler I had stashed in the clinic while I stayed and tended to Ruslan.