Cassia's POV

I follow Ilya out of my apartment building to see that there is a black car waiting in front of the curb. He opens the back door for me and waits for me to get in. Adjusting my hold on the duffel bag filled with medical supplies across my chest, I only give myself a second to doubt my decision.

He and whoever he works with handles guns and has pointed said guns at me before, consequently, they didn't shoot me. Maybe because they needed you then. Well they seem to need me now too. Until they don't. The stupid incessant voice in my head argues.

Okay so maybe these shady people were going to eventually put a bullet between my eyes when I was no longer useful. But I had a feeling they could just as well force me to do their bidding with the threat of a gun too. And something told me that it wouldn't be in my best interest to cross the man standing before me.

Knowing that I should have at least left a goodbye note to my mom if I really ended up being dead, I walk up to the car and get in the back seat. Ilya closes the door behind me and goes around the back to get in the other side.

Then the car is off into the New York night streets. I look to the driver's seat to see a similarly dressed man clad in a suit with long dirty blond hair and as if he feels me staring at him, his green eyes connect with me through the rearview mirror. They only stay there for a few seconds before his attention is back on the road.

I turn my gaze to look out the dark tinted windows as we pass brightly lit bodegas and establishments. People are walking down the streets either on their way back home or out to enjoy their night.

"Do you always get into cars with people you know nothing about?" Ilya's deep velvety voice brings me out of my sightseeing. But I still don't turn my head to glance at him, continuing to watch the buildings as we drive by.

"I do know you though." I say towards the window, before finally turning my face to look at him. He's looking perfectly lethal, half illuminated by the passing streetlights, half clad in shadows, blending in with his dark hair and dark suit, and his eerie light blue eyes watching me like the first thing you'd see of a predator in a jungle. And by then it's too late because he's already too close and pounces on you.

A small smile forms on his lips, his tongue coming out to glide across his bottom one. "Taking out a bullet and stitching someone hardly counts as knowing someone Cassia."

The sound of my name on his lips makes a shiver take over my body. Of course he knows my name. If he was able to find out where I live, he could find out my first name just as easily. I don't know why but him knowing my first name feels like a weapon in his hands.

I just slightly tilt my head to the side, trying to decipher him. I already know he doesn't like not being in control. What I don't know is just how much. And I always were a bit too curious for my own good.

My mouth forms a smile to match his as I rack my brain for the information, "I know you've been smoking since age fifteen. The scarring on the tops of your lungs also shows you've been living somewhere cold during early childhood so your viral pneumonia's never quite recovered leaving behind what we call a ground-glass opacity. By your accent I would say that's Russia." Leaning my head back to rest on the seat I give a nonchalant shrug. I watch the small smile slowly drop from his face, but I'm not even close to being done.

I turn my head to watch the streets pass once more as I continue in an absentminded tone. "Your blood works tells quite a bit too actually. Your ALT and AST, liver enzymes shows your tendency to drink, though your blood had no traces of substance use unlike what you claimed on your forms. Your right hand has a fracture on the fifth metacarpal, and your left hand has a sagittal band rupture which shows your tendency to participate in hand combat. For at least... ten years I would say. But the extensor tendon subluxation or dislocation, presents with hand pain and swelling so if you still punch people, which I'm betting my money you do, I would suggest putting ice on it afterwards, leads to early arthritis if not taken care of properly."

I could go on but the deadly silence in the car makes me stop. A chill has settled inside the small interior of the car at my words. Maybe I do want to die because listing off how much I know about the guy carrying a gun hasn't been my smartest moment. I turn my head in his direction to find all traces of humour gone from his face and his eyes pinning me to the leather couch.

Ilya lifts his hand to the arm rest and pushes a button without tearing his eyes from me. With a silent whizz, a black divider rises between us and the driver, securely sealing the two of us away and now we're alone.

My heart decides now is the right time to finally increase in speed. My survival instincts kicking in and  adrenaline pumping into my veins as Ilya closes the distance between us, effectively cornering me against the door. His large, lean body is sending off waves of heat even though we are not even touching and his intoxicating cologne wraps around my senses, turning my thoughts into mush.

His hand rises slowly to gently hold my chin in his thumb and forefinger, tilting my head back so I'm looking up at his face. His eyes roam over my face like they are on a laid back stroll through the park, not the least bit rushing as his eyes follow my eyes, down my nose and finally settling on my lips. His eyes becoming a few shades darker as they stay there. The rough pad of his thumb caresses my chin in a light graze.

"Tell me milaya." His minty breath fans across my cheeks and I have to consciously remind myself to stay still, not squirm under his intense attention or part my lips against his soft hold in an obvious invitation. "Do you know this much about all your patients?" He asks, his voice low and his gaze alight with challenge.

"Only the ones that refuse to go into operation." I reply back, my voice just as low, matching his words tone for tone. That earns me a deep chuckle from him, the sound traveling down my body and settling deep in my gut. I could listen to that sound all day.

He lowers his hold on my chin and I instantly feel the loss of warmth, my body wanting to lean into his body as he pulls back and puts more space between us. He leans over me, still not touching me as he opens my door and pushes it. I look at the open door for a few seconds, my brain still jumbled from Ilya's closeness.

I hadn't realised the car had came to a stop. "After you, doctor." Ilya says and I gather my duffel bag and step out the car. I take a few steps as I look at where we are. I should have known he was going to be living in a place like this. Guns almost always comes with dirty money. I don't like jumping to conclusions but the mansion sitting right in front of me, illuminated against the darkness of the night screams wealth and when you reach certain degrees of wealth there is bound to be unethical practices involved.

I turn my head to look at Ilya as he steps beside me and start to climb the steps to the door of the mansion. I follow him, clutching the duffel bag to my hip. "Do you deal with human trafficking?" I say before I can stop myself. Ilya stops and turns to me to lift a brow in an amused expression.

"Are you concerned for your being?" He asks.

I definitely should be, lord knows why I'm not. "Not really, would just reconsider helping you if you were involved in trafficking people." I say as I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. Ilya watches the movement with great focus, only when I lower my hand back on the bag resting against my hip does he once again meet my eyes.

"No I don't do human trafficking." And a big part of me relaxes at hearing that. He could be lying to me but I really don't think so. I see a lot of lies at the hospital. They're mostly people trying to convince me they never had sex when they're clearly 6 months pregnant or swearing they've never even heard of cocaine when their lab results are lighting up like a Christmas tree, but I like to think I have developed a knack for understanding when I'm lied to.

Ilya puts his hands in his pants pockets and looks at me like he's trying to understand me and predict whatever is going to come out of my mouth next. "Anything else you would be averse to?" He asks.

I ponder for a minute looking behind him at the big mansion again. "I'll let you know if anything else comes to mind." I say and I see the tiniest bits of a genuine smile before he turns his back to me to climb the rest of the stairs. I follow him to the door where he knocks on the door and a few seconds later an older gentleman with a lean built, dressed in an old fashion butler outfit opens the door. The butler holds the door as we step inside. He has a dark moustache with slight greying hairs in between like his hair.

His hair is neatly combed back, reminding me of Vito Corleone from godfather. He doesn't say anything but it bothers me when I don't acknowledge people so I don't follow Ilya and reach out my hand to the man. "Nice to meet you my name is Cassia Whitaker." I politely introduce myself. The older gentleman looks taken aback for a moment before composing himself and meeting my hand.

"Grigory Turgenev." He says in a heavier russian accent than I've heard from Ilya.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance Mr. Turgenev." I say as I shake his hand and then I lower it. I turn my head when I see Ilya closing in on me from the corner of my eye. He places a hand on my back and directs me away to the giant staircase. I can see annoyance in the tick of his jaw.

"Are you always this easily distracted?" He asks.

I look over my shoulder to see that Mr. Turgenev is no longer standing there and has disappeared. Then I turn back to Ilya as we reach the second landing. "I was just being polite." I say. I don't exactly understand what I did wrong but don't argue my point as his hand stays on the small of my back and lead me down a long corridor. When we reach a slightly ajar door, Ilya takes his hand away from me and pushes open the door.

I step into the room after him. An older gentleman with spectacles jumps to attention from where he's sitting next to a bed and there is someone lying down on the bed. I quickly side step Ilya's body and approach the bed. The older gentleman steps to the side as I approach and I place my duffel bag on the floor next to the bed. The person lying on the bed seems to be a young male, in their early twenties, he's either sleeping or unconscious and his skin colour is sickly.

I lean over to grab the patients wrist, feeling for his pulse, at the same time bring my face close to his face to watch for his chest rise and feel the air leaving his nose. I count his heartbeat and breaths for a second, deeming they are okay before standing back up again.

"Who is she?" The older gentleman asks.

"I brought another doctor to help you Dr. Beaumont. Utilise her." Ilya says as he stands at the foot of the bed, his hands in his pockets.

I turn around to face the older gentleman and extend my hand. "Pleased to meet you Dr. Beaumont." I notice a slight tremor in his hands as he extends his hand. It's mostly likely not Parkinson's as it's not a rest tremor. Must be an essential tremor; that either leaves postural or intention. As he places his hand in mine to shake it, I grab his hand by his wrist and stretch out his arm and leave it in the air like that. His tremor stops.

"Intention tremor." I murmur mostly to myself as I look at his hand. When I realise Dr. Beaumont is staring at me, I quickly grab his hand and shake it. "I apologise, Dr. Cassia Whitaker." I say. The doctor lets my hand go and fixes the position of his glasses with trembling hands. He huffs out a breath like he's already had enough of me but I heed him no mind. I tend to get that reaction out of people.

I turn to the patient lying in bed and open the covers to look at the rest of the patients body as I say, "Are you taking any carbamazepine or clonazepam for your tremors?" The young patient is in his boxers with bandages going around his chest and right thigh. When I hear no answer I turn around to look at Dr. Beaumont whose face has turned a slight red and looks annoyed.

"D'abord il amène un autre médecin pour se moquer de moi et maintenant elle pense qu'elle peut me soigner?" (First he brings another doctor to mock me and now she thinks she can cure me?) Dr. Beaumont releases a huff of breath in disbelief.

"Monsieur Beaumont, mon intention n'a jamais été de vous offenser. J'étais simplement curieux." (Mr. Beaumont, my intention was never to offend you. I was merely curious.) I reply in french and see his red face leech of colour as he realises I understood what he said.

His mouth opens and closes for a second but no words come out. I turn around to look at the patient and crouch down to open my duffel bag. I take out a pair of gloves and start to un-peel the bandage from his thigh, then his shoulder. Once the wounds are visible, I see two red bullet wounds, stitched with not very neat work. The skins on either sides don't quite align and they weren't probably checked and opened very frequent because the areas around the wounds are red and there is puss leaking through the stitches.

"Have you administered any antibiotics?" I say as I rummage around my bag for a thermometer.

"Of course!" Dr. Beaumont says. "Single dose cephalosporin." He says like he can't even believe I'm asking.

I nod my head as I take the patient's temperature. It's 40 degrees celsius. He's treatment is right but apparently it's not very effective. He's wound is infected and he's on his way to be septic. A heavier dose of antibiotics and fluid replacement with wound debridement would clear his system right up.

I take out my supplies and start cutting away the disorganised stitches crisscrossed across the wounds.

A sound of protest is heard from Dr. Beaumont. "Now she's destroying my work!" He exclaims. It's easier and safer to cleanse open wounds so I won't be resealing his wounds after taking out the stitches. I've had my fair share of professors and colleagues like Dr. Beaumont who are prideful and don't like being proven wrong so I don't say anything and continue my work.

"Mironov you can't just bring another doctor in and have her disregard my work. It's disrespectful!" He half shouts and half sputters out. I feel the old man's hand close around my upper arm as if he plans on pulling me away from the patient, but before he can do that, Dr. Beaumont is pulled away.

I turn around to see Ilya holding Dr. Beaumont by his throat and staring down at him like he's about to kill him. The old doctor is standing on his toes, trying to get a footing but he can't as Ilya has an iron hold on his neck.

"I can bring whoever I want Leopold." Ilya's ice cold threat is enough to freeze me in place when it's not even directed at me. Then Ilya turns to me, "Can you treat him by yourself?" He asks.

I look at the older doctor choking against Ilya's effortless hold and feel guilty for putting him there. What would happen to him if I told Ilya I can do this on my own. Would I be signing off on his demise?

"Cassia." The sound of Ilya's low warning zaps me out of my thoughts and I instinctively nod in response.

Then Ilya pushes the old man away, the doctor barely catching himself short of falling to the ground. He desperately chokes for air as both his hands go around his neck as he coughs.

Ilya straightens his lapels and looks emotionlessly at the doctor. "I don't need your services anymore Leopold. Take your leave." He says in a cool tone.

The doctor doesn't dare make eye contact as he grabs a leather bag from beside the chair he was sitting on and quickly exits the room. Then Ilya turns to me and looks at me expectantly, a grin forming on his lips.

"Go on then. Prove yourself doctor."

This was such a fun chapter to write!

Me channeling my med knowledge to make Cassia look like a twisted sherlock holmes dupe :p

Anyways, glad we're making progress! Have so many ideas that I think you'll just love.

💙