10
“You’re not a survivor. You’re a fighter.”
Nick threw some water on his face, hoping to add a little color to his pale complexion. He patted the towel against his cheeks and glanced at the stranger staring back at him. His eyes were a little bloodshot and dark circles had formed under his eyes. His confidence was shaky and his resolve waned. After a restless night and going through too many what-if scenarios, the answer was clear.
He needed to run. It was the only solution in his mind.
Every day he stayed, the danger increased for these men. He couldn’t risk their safety, regardless of how much he enjoyed their company. The flash of dread Ian had tried to mask when he’d revealed Petrov’s name was all the confirmation he needed. He was on a timetable.
He had known his death would come sooner than expected. It was a side effect he had accepted, considering the mess his life had become. But the thought of being tortured in the process twisted his stomach. And the thought of either Ian or Dex getting hurt because of him drove the bile to rise up his throat.
He hung the towel on the rack and sighed.
Ian was the one thing he hadn’t counted on. The one factor that kept his feet firmly planted in place, even though his instincts yelled at him to run.
Nick wanted to stay. He wanted to stay with Ian. He didn’t care where or how, but there was no way he’d ever ask Ian to run with him.
Gripping the talisman tightly in his hand, he summoned its magical powers and his guardian angel along with every merciful higher power. He wished for the enlightenment of a solution and the strength he needed to do what he had to do. It’s not fair. He screwed his eyes shut, his mind instantly reverting to a steady stream of flashbacks.
The shot in the restaurant that would have taken Petrov’s life had he not been there.
The stabbings he had mended. How many bullets he had pulled from bloodied bodies. The patchwork. He had lost count of the number of stitches he had sewn for Petrov’s men and the number of bones he had set. He chastised himself at the memory and how naive he had been for thinking things would be fine if he simply patched up and healed a hurt man. Then there were the other instances. The ones he wanted to forget most. The ones he couldn’t attribute to some “accident” excuse in his mind. It was those times when Petrov’s men would pull him from wherever he had been and escort him to some offsite location. Whether to perform some clandestine surgery or to be the medical standby during a special event. By then, he knew he had seen and known far too much.
He thought if he remained quiet, everything would be fine. That he could continue to fix a broken bone or stitch a cut and remove a bullet if needed, without worry. But his silence had been taken as acceptance, and Petrov had shoved him deeper into his twisted world.
Nick dropped to his knees, weakening as the emotions snaked up his chest and clamped his throat tight like a vise with the crisp, clear memory.
The hunting event where betrayers were punished.
Petrov would corral people who had betrayed him and set them free in one of his vacant properties. Nick had been reluctantly pulled into that show of force as the on-call physician. He had been commanded to stitch and heal four men who seemed far beyond repair. He had done his duty and healed the men. Whispers among Petrov’s guard clearly identified the men as betrayers. And Nick was the man tasked to patch them up to allow the torture to continue in another game round.
He had been dropped off at his home that night, feeling more numb and lost than he had ever felt in his life. He had gone to work the next day but the passion for his work had diminished. He persevered, instinctively following the same routine after so many years of emergency room double shifts and sleep deprivation. A week had passed and things had calmed, long enough for him to believe some semblance of something normal would be possible again.
Until one afternoon after work, when Petrov’s men had taken him—again—and demanded he perform another surgery. A procedure he had initially refused, but ultimately completed with a gun aimed at his head the entire time.
That was the last day he was called Nicholas Stratton.
Now, he sat on the bathroom floor, hunched over, wrapping his arms around his knees as he fought the sting in his eyes. He curled into his body at the memory, struggling with the mingling fear of both leaving and staying.
He had tried to be a good man, someone who helped others. He wanted to use his knowledge and skills to heal others and eliminate their pain. There was never any regret for a second of lost sleep during those endless years of learning, practicing, and gaining skills in his profession. He had found his purpose and loved what he could do. He was living his dream.
And that monster had taken that from him.
He screwed his eyes shut, the pain in his chest spreading.
It’s not fair.
Life wasn’t fair. He had learned that lesson far too early in life. His parents had died in a fire because of an old house with faulty wiring that had finally given in. Dad had saved him and gone back inside to rescue Mom, but neither had made it out and Nick had been sent off to live with his uncle.
Nick uncurled his body on the bathroom floor and leaned back against the wall.
Memories of his parents had faded over the years, but he clearly remembered the day child services had delivered him to his only living relative. His uncle had been a man filled with immeasurable hate. And Nick had become the outlet to unleash the rage his uncle had stored inside. After two weeks of living in that hell and surviving too many bruises and one broken arm, in an odd twist of fate, he had been saved.
That night, he had run hard and fast to a neighbor’s house. Ms. Stratton had opened the door, shocked to see a small five-year-old standing there, barefoot with the pads of his feet bleeding from his run, and his arm in a sling.
“My mom and dad died in a fire. I lived with my uncle and he did this to me,” he had said, pointing to the sling. He remembered his angel’s words and kept his promise of secrecy. “Can you keep me safe?”
Nick fondly smiled at the memory, his eyes blurring and his throat constricting with emotion as he remembered the woman who became his surrogate mother.
She had taken him in without a second of hesitation. She had cried that night while holding him tight, calling him a blessing and a gift, while wiping and bandaging his cut feet. “If we need to be safe, then we need to hide.”
Over the years, Nick had quickly learned old and gray Ms. Stratton hadn’t lived the saintly life her grandmotherly appearance led most to believe. She was a clever old bird, with quick wit, and creative friends. All of whom willingly came to her house at a moment’s notice to help her when she had called and said she needed a new place.
With her new grandson.
And that was exactly what all the fake paperwork showed to anyone who inquired about his identity.
They moved to a smaller, quieter area in Chicago. Ms. Stratton and her small circle became his family—a handful of dear friends with rap sheets as big as their hearts. With their help, he learned how to fight and expanded on knowledge no school incorporated in their curriculum, including tricks and skills he would later use to stay alive in a cruel world.
Until Ms. Stratton’s doctor’s negligence led to her death and awakened his desire to become a physician so he could do right by patients needing care.
Nick leaned his head back against the bathroom wall and exhaled heavily, the weight of a lifetime of pain and stress wearing him down.
A fire had stolen his parents.
An uncle had shown him the face of evil.
A negligent doctor had taken the only other woman he had ever loved.
But an angel had saved him and that had led him to a woman who had become his second mother. She had taught him life lessons on how to be strong and survive.
She would kick my ass if she saw me sitting on this bathroom floor.
A strangled chuckle escaped in between gasps. He sniffled as he gripped his good luck charm, begging his angel to now lead him to a solution that included Ian. He absently rocked back and forth, feeling the stiffness of the cold tile against his ass. He pressed a kiss to the talisman. “Please,” he whispered, his voice shaky and broken.
He remembered his surrogate mother’s words. You’re not a survivor. You’re a fighter.
Nick bit back the fear threatening to consume him. Fear may have won this battle, but he refused to let it win the war.
Gripping the edge of the bathroom counter, he took a deep breath as he stood, struggling to slap a lid on the emotions overtaking him.
He was stronger than this, dammit.
Nick stared at his reflection again. He ignored the dark circles and his skin’s pallor. Instead, he focused on the gold flecks of his green eyes—bright like sparks of fire.
That’s the torch of your inner fighter, his surrogate mother had repeatedly told him, burning bright as he charges into war.
With renewed strength, he pushed off the bathroom counter and walked into the bedroom. He slid a fresh T-shirt over his head, smiling at the smell of coffee wafting in the air.
Dex and Ian had stayed up for a while after he had gone to bed. He heard the quiet chatter, but not enough to make out their discussion before sleep had come barreling in.
Maybe they had come up with a plan, or at least, some idea with a slight chance of survival.
At this point, he was open to any shred of hope that was offered.
Because the alternative was too painful to fathom.