Since waking from his coma at Reid Hospital, he’d been under tight watch and VIP care.
Mr. Waters had mentioned that the hospital’s proctology team was in a heated debate—should they slice off Eric Vaughn’s wrecked rear for science? Someone had to sacrifice for medical progress, right? If not Alex, if not you, then Eric it was.
Like how can someone have this much problem, even a strong laxative medicine isn’t enough for that to be this big of a problem.
Now with Alex.
Alex’s voice carried a strange pull, almost hypnotic. As his words of moving her grandma to his private hospital sank in her mind, Riley’s dull, hopeless eyes sparked back to life, shining with pure, untainted trust.
“Thank you, Sir! Thank you so much!” Her big, watery eyes blinked up at him. Still kneeling, she shuffled forward a step or two on her knees.
“No need to thank me. You’re special to me,” Alex said, rising to his feet.
Riley froze, caught off guard.
She hadn’t forgotten—ever since that blurry night in the bar’s private room, she’d been sure Alex had taken her first time.
She’d even snuck out to buy pills the next day, swallowing them in secret. Now, his words hit her like a confession. Was he… declaring something?
Her simple, naive mind raced. Alex had it all—money, looks, power. Her? Nothing. Well, except her body—and he’d already claimed that, or so she thought. Her cheeks burned as she stood slowly, knees pink from the floor.
The motion light blinked off. In that dark split second, the shy, self-conscious girl found a rare burst of courage. She stepped close, rose on tiptoes, and pecked his cheek—soft, quick. Then she darted back, retreating several steps.
The light flared back on.
Alex blinked, genuinely surprised, peering at the girl now huddled in the corner. Her hair was a mess, her head bowed, staring at her toes.
Say what you will—Riley’s pure-as-snow charm, paired with that shy, push-pull move, was a knockout punch to any man’s defenses. A protagonist might’ve paused, mindful of her feelings or the old lady next door. Not Alex. He thrived on crossing lines.
“Riley, you look gorgeous today,” he said, meaning it. No makeup, no fuss—just that impossibly innocent face, her best feature.
He imagined smearing something white across it.
The blunt praise flustered her. She ducked her head, heart pounding as he closed in. She wanted to back away, but the wall trapped her—no escape.
“Riley, thought about how to thank me?” He took her small, soft hands in his.
Her ears went red, voice barely a whisper. “N-No…”
“You’re the best gift I could ask for,” he said, pulling her into a light embrace.
She squirmed, pushing him off, breathless. “No… not here. Grandma’s right next door in the ward. Someone… someone might come.”
“I don’t mind,” Alex replied, grinning wider. Her protest only stoked him.
“Huh?” She lifted her dazed face, wide-eyed.
He didn’t answer—just dipped his head closer.
From then on, the stairwell’s motion light stayed on steady.
Last time, her head had throbbed dully. This time? Nothing—just a numb haze.
A protagonist might’ve booked a fancy hotel, taken it slow, eased her in. Alex, the villain? He didn’t do gentle. Half an hour later, as she fumbled into her clothes, Riley mumbled, head low, “Can you get some meds?”
She hurt too much to move, let alone trek downstairs.
“What meds?” Alex frowned, thrown.
She paused mid-zip, ducking deeper. “Birth control! What if I get pregnant?”
“Then have it. Your grandma would love it,” Alex said, rubbing her stomach with a smirk.
‘And Eric Vaughn? He’d flip.’
Riley pursed her lips, still uneasy, but stayed quiet, dressing herself.
“Let’s go—time to transfer your grandma,” Alex said, smoothing his shirt. Sage mode on, he pushed the ward door open and stepped inside.
….
At Reid Hospital, in the proctology wing, Eric Vaughn had been upgraded from a basic room to a deluxe one. Two beds, a bathroom, a sofa, a TV—the works.
He lay sprawled face-down, staring blankly out the window at a crisp blue sky. His face was ghostly, lips bloodless, looking like he was halfway to the grave.
By his bed sat a rickety cane and a wheelchair—hand-me-downs, worn to peeling by who-knows-how-many before him.
The hospital offered new ones, but those came with a deposit Eric couldn’t cough up. Some janitor had scrounged these relics from God-knows-where instead.
“Ugh!”
“Damn it!”
He looked like a broken man, itching to scream at the unfairness of it all—but he held back. One wrong yell, and his freshly stitched rear might rip again.
The sky outside mocked him with its brightness. Kids’ cries drifted up from below, grating on his nerves.
Me, the successor to my master—left hand healing, right hand killing, the carefree prodigy doctor—reduced to this? A “prodigy doctor” stuck in a hospital bed. The irony stung.
“Is it my fault? My healing? My poisons?” The anti-inflammatory drip kicked in, cooling his head.
“My fault…?”
Then he smirked, scoffing at himself. “No way it’s me. Me, screwed up? Please—what a dumb thought.” His grin widened, defiant. “I’m Eric Vaughn. I don’t owe anyone an explanation.”
He replayed his downfall since leaving the mountains. “That damn wind—if it hadn’t blown, Alex would be the one flat on his face right now.”
“Why the hell was there wind?”
It gnawed at him. When he’d pulled the powder from his waistband, the air was still—dead calm. The second he flicked it, a gust swooped in. “Damn it, even the wind’s out to get me.”
He flexed his muscled arm, sizing up some imaginary foe.
Eric turned away, ignoring the guy in the next bed. Ever since they’d moved him here, that meathead kept yapping at him.
At first, Eric humored him—boredom was boredom, and the guy wasn’t broke. Word was, he owned biggest gym. But now? It just pissed him off.
“Freaking hell,” Eric muttered, face darkening.
Back in lockup, Eric had a dozen ways to deal with that creepy glasses guy. But now? He was a wreck—too weak to walk, let alone fight.
His poisons were stashed in his old clothes, long gone. All he had was a hospital gown—and even the underwear was standard-issue patient gear.
Mike, the muscle-bound guy in the next bed, just grinned when Eric ignored him, unfazed. “You don’t know me yet, huh? That’s fine. I bet you’ll need me soon enough. My club’s always open to you.”
He paused, wiping his mouth. “Looks like someone roughed you up bad. I don’t know who did it, but if you want payback, swing by my gym.”
Eric already knew the gym’s address from earlier chats. He’d also caught wind of Mike’s “mysterious club”—something vague he’d been curious about back when he could still think straight.