Brenda gripped the edge of her car door to keep from collapsing. The pain in her knee was a sharp, pulsing agony.
She stared at the man in the back of the Maybach. "I have insurance," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "I'll call the police to file a report. I don't need to get in your car."
Bryon's eyes narrowed. He let out a short, cold laugh. "Your cheap insurance won't cover the custom carbon-fiber bumper of this car. And I don't have time to wait for the police."
The driver, Mitch, stepped forward. He pulled open the heavy rear door of the Maybach and stood beside it, his posture rigid. It wasn't an invitation. It was an enforcement.
Cars behind them began to honk. The intersection was getting blocked.
Brenda looked at her wrecked Corolla, then at the massive driver, and finally at Bryon's unyielding face. She had no choice.
She let go of her car door and limped toward the Maybach. Every step sent a jolt of fire up her thigh. She practically fell onto the plush leather seat next to Bryon.
Mitch slammed the door shut, sealing them inside.
The cabin was instantly silent, completely insulated from the city noise. The air smelled of Bryon-that intoxicating, dangerous mix of cedarwood and expensive tobacco. It made it hard for Brenda to breathe.
Bryon didn't look at her. He tapped the glass partition. "Mount Sinai Private Hospital."
Brenda's head snapped toward him. "No. I don't need a hospital. It's just a bruise. Drop me off at the nearest subway station."
Bryon slowly turned his head. His gaze was heavy, pinning her in place. "I need documented proof of your injuries. I will not have you suing me for medical complications a month from now, claiming my car caused permanent damage."
Brenda's mouth fell open. "Are you insane? I hit you! And I would never extort you!"
Bryon's lips twitched upward into a faint, mocking smile. His eyes dropped to her flushed cheeks. "I don't trust you, Miss Vincent. You've already proven you're full of surprises."
Brenda glared at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She tried to shift her body away from him, pressing herself against the opposite door.
The movement pulled the injured muscle in her knee. She let out a sharp hiss of pain and grabbed her thigh.
Bryon's smile vanished. His brow furrowed.
Without a word, he reached across the wide seat. His large, warm hand clamped down just above her injured knee.
Brenda flinched violently. "Don't touch me!"
Bryon ignored her. His grip was firm but not bruising. He effortlessly lifted her leg and placed it across the wide leather seat, resting her foot near his hip.
"Stop moving," he ordered, his voice suddenly low and rough.
He opened a hidden compartment in the center console and pulled out a chemical ice pack. He cracked it, shaking it until it turned freezing cold, and pressed it directly over the fabric of her skirt onto her swollen knee.
The sudden cold was a shock, but it instantly numbed the burning pain.
Brenda stopped struggling. She looked at his profile. His jaw was set, his focus entirely on holding the ice pack in place. The contrast between his ruthless words and this strangely gentle action confused her, making her heart beat in an erratic, uncomfortable rhythm.
The Maybach pulled into the VIP underground entrance of the hospital.
A team of medical staff was already waiting by the elevators with a wheelchair.
Mitch opened the door. Brenda swung her good leg out. "I can walk," she muttered, refusing to look weak in front of him.
She put weight on her right leg and immediately buckled.
Before she could hit the concrete floor, a strong arm wrapped around her waist. Bryon hauled her up against his chest.
"Stubborn," he muttered.
Before Brenda could protest, Bryon bent down, scooped her up into his arms, and lifted her completely off the ground.
"Put me down!" Brenda gasped, her face burning hot. She instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck to keep from falling.
"Keep your voice down, or I'll drop you right here," Bryon warned, his tone flat. He carried her past the stunned medical staff, ignoring the wheelchair completely, and strode into the VIP elevator.
He carried her all the way to the top floor and into a massive, luxurious examination room. He set her down gently on the examination bed.
An older, balding orthopedic specialist rushed in, followed by two nurses. "Mr. Reeves, sir. We are ready."
"Check her right knee," Bryon commanded, stepping back but not leaving the room.
The doctor carefully lifted the hem of Brenda’s skirt, revealing a massive, ugly purple bruise spreading across her kneecap.
The doctor began to press his fingers around the joint to check the ligaments.
Brenda bit down hard on her lower lip. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She gripped the edge of the bed, her knuckles white, refusing to make a sound.
Bryon watched her face. His hands slowly curled into fists inside his pockets.
"Your touch is entirely too heavy," Bryon suddenly snapped. His voice echoed like thunder in the quiet room. "You're examining a woman, not butchering a cow."
The doctor jumped, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. "Yes, sir. Apologies, sir."
After a quick portable X-ray, the doctor confirmed there were no broken bones, just severe soft tissue damage.
A nurse rolled a cart over, holding a long cotton swab and a bottle of dark iodine to clean the scrapes on Brenda's skin.
Brenda looked at the long swab and tensed.
Bryon stepped forward. He took the swab directly from the nurse's hand.
"Leave us. All of you. Now," Bryon said, not looking at anyone but Brenda.
The medical staff didn't hesitate. They practically ran out of the room, shutting the heavy door behind them.
