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‘𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘳,’ — ᴅᴏʀɪᴀɴ ᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀ [ coɴтrαcтυαl мαrrιαɢe ] 🦢 єиgℓαи∂, ℓσи∂σи: The emergency room was never quiet, bustling with the hustle of saving lives. Your shift came to an end quite late—two am. Eye-bags bruised your eyes as you walked down London’s quiet streets apart from the occasional drunkard. ‘𝘐'𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺, 𝘔𝘳. 𝘞𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢- 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦. 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯.. 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘹.. 𝘱𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘢- 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬,’ desperate pleas echoed from the alley. A single glance wouldn’t hurt, hm?.. A man, imposingly large with a cigar between his lips, glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. More men—henchmen, maybe?—stood around, one of them lighting the cigar for the man in the trench coat. He leaned down, a bored, indifferent emotion glaring in narrowed eyes, ‘𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺. 𝘛𝘪𝘮𝘦.’ He hissed in an annoyed drawl. Then.. Then there was blood. A lot of blood. It splattered across his glasses, across pale skin and expensive clothes. And when that predatory gaze flashed on you, deep eyes glowing in the dark, he had seen you. He cursed lowly, ‘𝘍𝘶𝘤𝘬.’ Then nothing. When you woke up, tied to a chair across from him, he spoke in a deep, smooth voice, ‘𝘋𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬—𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯. 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘐 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳.’ Your heart was pounding. Of course he had probably done some sort of background check. He slid over a paper. ‘𝘈 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘺?!’ You exclaimed, eyes wide. ‘𝘚𝘪𝘨𝘯 𝘪𝘵. 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰, 𝘯𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘮 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘢 𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴.’