Wintertime Bad Boy: A Christmas Suspense Romance (Alphas Unboxed Book 3) Read online

  The day passes by slowly and just before the end of my shift, I stop by the ICU and check in on Braden. I check his chart as he lies there, strapped to the beeping machines. His vitals are normal and I adjust his morphine drip before standing at the edge of his bed and staring at him.

  I don’t know when it hits me but my eyes widen in stark recognition. “Shit.”

  He’s the guy who was talking to the Frenchman the other day!

  My throat is suddenly dry and my right hand reaches up to clutch my left elbow. I don’t know why I’m getting worked up but the memory of those lips on me, the firm grip on my waist as he completely destroyed me with one kiss, it has me scrambling.

  A soft groan has me focusing on the present.

  “Mr. Fox?”

  The heart rate monitor picks up and I immediately try to calm down the disorientated man. “You’re in a hospital. How are you feeling?”

  His eyes are dazed. “Damien?”

  “There’s no Damien here,” I tell him as he reaches out to clutch the sleeve of my cardigan. “I’m Nurse Alex. You can’t move about. You’ve just had surgery.”

  “Where’s Damien?” he asks, his eyes unfocused, his tone shaken, and pity and concern stirs in me, and I say gently, “They didn’t find anybody else at the scene.”

  He’s falling back into unconsciousness and I page Jen who’s there within the next ten minutes.

  “He’s out,” I tell her, feeling troubled. I watch her bustle about, and say, “He was asking after someone named Damien.” When I meet her eyes, I continue. “I don’t think he was alone at the crash site. This is the second time he’s asked for this Damien person.”

  Jen presses her lips together. “There was an officer here asking questions earlier. I’ll let him know.”

  I follow her out of the room and by the time my shift ends, I’m dead on my feet.

  I change into my street clothes and make my way to the parking lot to meet Jen. People know that we’re friends but I don’t like to advertise our relationship that much.

  She’s warming up the car and grins at me, throwing open the passenger door. “Let’s get drunk!”

  My lips curve of their own volition at the cheer in her voice and I look forward to getting buzzed. My shift starts late tomorrow so I don’t have to get up at six in the morning.

  The bar we end up at is a high end one and I lounge in the comfortable sofa type seat, grinning like a loon, already on my third beer, the stress of the day having melted away.

  “And then—” I wave my glass around, laughing. “He went and threw up all over Dennis and Den-Dennis—” I’m laughing so hard that I’m wheezing, and Jen is waving her hand at me, gasping at me to shut up because she can’t breathe due to laughing. “Dennis just stares at him and goes ‘I thought you were dead, Mr. Hensen’ and then he started screaming and—and—”

  Jen slips out of her seat, clutching her stomach. “Oh, God. Just stop. I can’t—I can’t.”

  Her cheeks are flushed and I try to calm myself down but I just end up snickering. “The look on his face. And then Mr. Hensen started screaming. Oh, God. You should have seen it.”

  Jen pulls herself back into her seat. “Oh, man. I wish I had.” As she begins to calm down, she takes a swig of her beer. “I heard through the grapevine you got asked out today.”

  I roll my eyes. “Lawrence, the paramedic guy. He’s cute, but I don’t think he’s really my type.”

  Jen leans back against the sofa, waggling her brows. “Yeah? And what’s your type?”

  A pair of wild green eyes and a lazy smirk flash into my mind and my breath hitches making me lower my eyes as I trace the condensation on my glass with my finger. “He’s too soft.”

  “Soft?” Jen echoes, sounding baffled. “I thought you liked the gentle kind.”

  I shake my head, blushing now. “I do—I mean—”

  Jen blinks and then a smirk crosses her faces, as she says in an accusing tone, “You like someone.”

  I immediately go into denial mode. “No, no, of course not!”

  “Liar!” she calls me out, gleefully. “You have a crush on someone!”

  “I don’t,” I wail, finding myself cornered.

  “You do, too!” she says in a singsong voice. “Who is it? Tell me!”

  I never intended to tell her about the mugging incident from two days ago because then she will go into her Mom-mode and force me to move in with her. So, I gloss over the details.

  “He kissed you?”

  I feel nervous as she sits there, watching me intently. “It was after he gave me back my ID.”

  “Was it hot?”

  I sink my teeth into my lower lip. “I think I had a wet dream—”

  She lets out a sound between a squeal and a shout, making people turn around to stare at us. “Alex!”

  My entire face is red now and I run my hands through my hair in a quick agitated movement. “Don’t make too much of it.”

  “Oh, honey, how can I not?” She looks entirely too excited. “Was it a French kiss?”

  I give her a baleful look, “Shouldn’t you be more concerned that a random stranger grabbed me and kissed me rather than whether he slipped me his tongue or not?”

  She snorts. “You’re the one having the wet dreams about him. Kinky much?”

  I flush. “In my defense, that’s the most action I’ve seen in over a year. Should’ve maced him though. Out of principle.”

  She chuckles.

  We stay there for another hour or so before leaving. I decline her offer to drive me home because it’s not that late and there are still people on the street. Besides, her apartment is in the opposite direction and she’s insisted on driving.

  “Call me as soon as you get home,” I order her. Unlike me, she’s not had much to drink but the way her cheeks are red, it seems she’s slightly tipsy. But she discards all my pleas of ordering her a taxi.

  I start the trek home. It’s a fifteen-minute walk and the frosty air wakes me up, making me much more alert.

  Couples are out and about, celebrating the beginning of the weekend. Christmas is in two months and I haven’t decided how to spend it yet. I have a feeling that Jen will invite me to her parents’ home in Florida but I don’t think I’m ready to be around anyone this Christmas. I should get roaring drunk on cheap whiskey and stay drunk throughout the entire week, to numb the memories.

  I shove my hands deeper into my pockets thinking of how Dad would have disapproved of this.

  You should make the most of life, kid. You only get one.

  “Then you should have stayed,” I mutter, my eyes burning.

  Lost in thought, I walk past an alley, about to round it, to reach my street when I hear a groan.

  I still upon hearing the pain-filled sound.

  I turn my head, common sense telling me to keep walking but my instincts are telling me that someone is injured.

  The alley is dark but I can make out a dumpster and a few cardboard boxes. Hesitant, I take out my mace, cursing myself for being stupid even as I ask, “Hello? Are you okay?”

  Another groan and then a low curse. “Merde.”

  I took enough French in high school to recognize the word. The voice and accent slips into my head just as a man staggers out from behind the dumpster. It takes me a second to recognize him and my heart nearly stops. His clothes are torn and he’s bloodied, bruises blooming under his tattered shirt.

  “Mon petit ange,” he whispers in a ragged tone, that hint of flirtatiousness still there and before I can think, as I watch him stumble, my body is moving of its own accord and I slip his arm around my shoulder. “What happened to you?”

  He looks dazed—with the pain, perhaps—and doesn’t answer me.

  I reach for my phone. “I’ll call an ambulance—”

  That gets his attention. “No!” He shakes his head, as if trying to clear it. “N-No hospital. Can you patch me up?”

  “You need medical attention,” I argue and despite the obvious pain he is in, he manages to give me an amused look. “I’m not going to die from a few bruises, ma chérie. I’ve had worse than these.”

  I’m torn between obeying my instincts and listening to him. He seems to sense my inner battle and his voice is rough. “There’s a reason I can’t go to the hospital. Trust me.”

  I clench my teeth and make the decision in a split second. “I live just around the corner.”

  His eyes brighten at that in relief and I help him to my building, ignoring the stares that we get. But this is New York. Nobody is going to step in. We face another challenge at the bottom of the stairs.

  “I’m sorry,” I apologize, uselessly. “The elevator is broken, we’re gonna have to take the stairs.”

  “Which floor?” he asks, his tone tired.

  “Seventh,” I wince.

  His face turns pale but I have to admire his resilience as he gives me a ghost of a smile. “Then what are we waiting for?”

  It takes us double the time and while I’m out of breath, his hands are trembling with the exertion and as I hold him, he lets out a hiss. “Not there.”

  I immediately release my hold on his waist and look down, realization dawning in my eyes. “You’ve been stabbed!”

  “You’re pretty smart for a nurse.”

  Under normal circumstances, I would have said something nasty at the insult, but my hands are shaking as I turn the key to my front door and usher him inside before slamming the door shut and flicking on the lights. “Bathroom. Now.”

  My tone brooks no argument and he lifts a brow at it before glancing around and then following my eyes and opening the door to a small, well-maintained bathroom.

  My apartment might be small but my bathroom has a bathtub, a luxury I’m always grat
eful for.

  “Sit there on the edge of the tub. I’ll be right back.”

  I leave him there and go to my bedroom to fetch the first-aid box. I bring it to the bathroom and see that the man is sitting out the edge of the tub, his face pale.

  I have a stranger in my apartment.

  As I put down the box and open it, I realize that I might have a reckless streak in me which might end up with me getting killed one day. Even as I think that, I’m assessing the damage to him. His shirt is clinging to him in some places and I realize that removing it is imperative.

  “I’m going to have to cut your shirt off,” I tell him and he nods, tight-lipped.

  I take out a pair of fabric scissors and start snipping.

  I’m on my knees in front of him, my hands steady, the silence in the bathroom only broken by the sounds of the scissors neatly clipping the cloth in two. It takes me a few minutes to get the shirt off and when I do, I suck in a horrified breath. “What happened to you?”

  Almost his entire torso is black and blue and I see the vicious stab wound. He’s not bleeding anymore but it needs to be cleaned and stitched up. There are scrapes and bruises on him. It’s like his entire body is mapped out with injuries and my lips tremble when I see new injuries over faded scars.

  I don’t realize that my fingers are ghosting over them until I lift my eyes and meet his steady gaze. The look in them shakes me but I can’t help but ask. “Are you sure you won’t let me take you to a hospital? You might have some internal bleeding we can’t see.”

  He gives me a wry smile, his thin lips curving. “I’m afraid not, mon chérie.”

  I take a deep breath. “Well, you need stitches.”

  He gives me a lopsided grin. “I’m not afraid of needles.”

  I shake my head. “Fine. Let’s clean you up first.”

  His muscles are hard under my fingers and despite the seriousness of the situation, I can’t help but admire the lean strength of him. He’s built, there’s not an ounce of fat on him.

  The cotton is soaked in bloodied water and I use an entire roll of gauze to wipe off the blood and apply antiseptic to his injuries, disinfecting them. Throughout, he doesn’t so much as move but I can feel his eyes on me and it does something to me, even as my hands steadily work on him, to know that I am the sole focus of his attention.

  It takes me an hour to clean each wound and injury and then I move to the stab wound. I pause at it and look up at him. His wild green eyes bore into mine and he reminds me of a dangerous untamed predator who is just watching me, pretending to be docile under my hands.

  The idea of him suffering as the needle pierces his skin is unbearable for some reason and I swallow. “Wait here.”

  He doesn’t say anything and I put my hands on his thighs to propel myself up, realizing only too late what I’ve done as I feel the powerful muscles, under my slim hands, tense. My head jerks up and we’re nose to nose, and I see the unmasked heat in his eyes.

  “D-Don’t.” The whimper is torn from me.

  He looks amused. “I didn’t do anything.”

  Chapter 3

  Don’t look at me like that.

  I can’t say the words that are at the tip of my tongue and it takes a heroic effort to tear my gaze away from his knowing one.

  I stumble to my feet and go in search of the whiskey that I got last week from the grocery store. I don’t bother with a glass and just bring the whole bottle along with me, handing it to him, careful not to meet his eyes.

  “I’m going to stitch you up now and it’s going to hurt, so just take a couple of drinks of this.”

  He opens the bottle and sniffs before carefully sealing it. “I’m good.”

  That has me looking up and I remember where I had seen him the first time and I feel a bit of shame and irritation. “I know it’s not the best quality but trust me, it’ll help.”

  His lips curl in that mocking smile. “Don’t worry about me, chéri. I’ve had worse than a needle poking at me.”

  I want to ask him to reconsider and I open my mouth. Before I can say anything, his hand curls around my nape and he’s pulling me up until his mouth presses against mine, his tongue sweeping inside my mouth, tasting the bitter flavor of the beer still lingering there. His kiss is hard and my hands which had been lifted to push him away, go limp, my pussy throbbing, my nipples tightening as he abuses my mouth so lovingly.

  He releases me, gently, and then stares into my eyes, his voice ragged. “How do you taste so good?”

  I’m trying to get my brain cells to work but I can’t process his words. He’s cupping my face, his thumbs stroking my cheeks, his words a thick murmur. “Such a defenseless little thing. You make me want to corrupt you in every way possible.”

  That gets my attention, and my hand which had been limply holding on to the needle, tightens its grip on it and I poke him with it, making him jump.

  My breathing is uneven. “Do that again and I’ll shove this somewhere it’ll really hurt.”

  He grins suddenly and it’s an achingly beautiful sight, making me swallow. “I needed an option aside from that poison you were offering me.” His tongue darts out as if to taste the flavor of me still on his lips and I try not to react to the sight of that.

  “Sit still,” I growl, horrified at myself for what I’ve let him get away with. For someone like me who is always so careful, I’ve been acting too recklessly ever since I met this man. I should have called an ambulance the second I saw that he was injured rather than bring him home. I should have kicked him out when he kissed me right now.

  I kneel between his legs and start stitching.

  He doesn’t move and once I’m done, I snip the thread and then lean back on my haunches and inspect my work. “You okay?”

  He nods, his eyes never leaving my face.

  I stand up, careful to avoid touching him this time.

  “Your major injuries have been treated. I still need to look at your face.” I shift uncomfortably. “Um, don’t touch me, okay?”

  He blinks at me and I continue. “I need to, um, stand close to you to keep my hand steady.”

  He gets my meaning a second later and the smirk on his lips makes my heart skip a beat. “Oh you mean like this?”

  He parts his legs and with one hand on my waist, he drags me until I’m standing between his thighs. I can feel the heat and power radiating from his body and it makes my legs tremble. “J-Just, uh, you keep your hands where I can see them.”

  His grin widens and I study the gash along his jaw, clinically, doing my best to ignore the havoc his proximity is causing me.

  Trying to remain professional, I grasp his jaw and turn it to the side, ordering. “Stop smiling, I need your face relaxed.”

  He obeys and my eyes take in the injury on his face.

  “Well,” I finally say after a minute of perusal. “Good news is that you don’t need stitches on your face.”

  “What’s the bad news, then, Nurse?”

  His hands creep up to lightly rest on my hips and I open my mouth to admonish him but there is a soft indulgent smile on his face that makes my heart flip over in my chest, and I have to clear my throat. “The bad news is that you might have a small scar along your jaw.”

  He doesn’t flinch at the news, smiling nonchalantly. “A scar doesn’t bother me.”

  I look down at him and wonder how someone so wickedly handsome is sitting in my bathroom.

  The moment drags on for a little too long and I fidget, as is my habit, and try to step aside, only for him to press his thighs around my legs and hooking his ankles on the floor, so that I can’t escape.

  “Tell me something, Nurse Alexandra—”

  I swallow. “It’s Alex.”

  His eyes light up, and I can feel his hand tightening on my hips. “All right, Alex. Why did you help me?”

  I open my mouth and then snap it shut. Why did I help him?

  I look at him. “You helped me first.”

  I groan internally at how accusatory my tone sounds and his lips twitch. “So, you don’t have a habit of rescuing strays?”

  “Are you a stray?” I counter and I can see the amusement flash in his green eyes.

  “Maybe. Would you feed a stray?”

  Shameless, shameless man.

  I just rescued him, patched him up and now he’s demanding food?! Does it look like I’m running five star accommodations here?