Chapter 2 - Rules of Engagement
The West Wing of the Hayes estate felt less like a luxury residence and more like a high-security vault with a velvet lining. By six o’clock the following morning, Riley was standing in the center of the private medical suite adjoining Declan’s bedroom, staring at a wall of high-end clinical equipment.
A physical therapy table sat unused under a heavy dust sheet. Resistance bands lay curled in a corner like discarded snakes. The air smelled thick with lemon scented floor polish and the underlying metallic tang of gun oil.
When she pushed open the double doors to the primary bedroom, Declan was already awake. He was sitting on the edge of his king-sized bed, his broad back bare, hands gripping the edge of the mattress. His muscles strained, corded and thick, as he tried to shift his lower body into position to transfer to the carbon-fiber chair parked nearby.
He was dripping with sweat. His jaw was set so hard she could hear his teeth grinding from across the room.
Riley didn't ask if he needed help. She knew better. She leaned against the doorframe, sipping dark coffee from a worn mug she had brought from home.
"Your technique is terrible," she observed casually.
Declan froze, his chest heaving. He slowly turned his head, dark eyes narrowing into slits. His hair was damp, sticking to his forehead. Without his tailored suits, the raw brutality of his physical frame was obvious, marred only by the thick, jagged entry scars on his ribs and the surgical line running down his lower spine.
"Out," he rasped.
"It’s six fifteen," Riley said, walking over to the heavy black curtains and yanking them open with a harsh, metallic rattle. "Your chart says you take your physical therapy meds at six thirty, followed by stretching, then breakfast. I don't get paid to sit in the hallway while you break your own wrist trying to prove a point."
Sunlight flooded the room. Declan winced, reflexively shielding his eyes.
"I said get out, Dawson," he growled, his voice carrying the exact pitch that usually sent ruthless lieutenants scrambling for cover.
Riley ignored him completely. She set her mug on the nightstand, stepped into his space, and dropped into a low squat right in front of his knees.
"Look at me," she demanded.
Declan didn't move.
"Declan. Look at me."
He snapped his head down, glaring at her with enough cold fury to freeze an ocean. "You are pushing your luck."
"You’re dropping your left shoulder," she said, her tone utterly clinical. "You’re trying to use pure upper-body power to compensate for bad leverage. You do that three more times, you're going to tear a rotator cuff, and then I’m going to have to feed you your oatmeal like a toddler. Do you want me to feed you oatmeal?"
Declan’s nostrils flared. "I will throw you out that window."
"The glass is bulletproof, you'd just bounce off," she shot back. "Now. Put your right arm over my shoulder."
He stared at her. She didn't smell like the clinical antiseptics of the previous nurses. She smelled like cheap vanilla body spray and black coffee. There was no hesitation in her posture, no flinching as she reached out and firmly placed her hand against his ribcage, right below his surgical scars. Her touch was warm, solid, and entirely unconcerned with his reputation.
"On three," she said. "Don't fight me. Just lean into the transfer."
"I don't need—"
"One. Two."
With an efficiency built from five years of yanking three-hundred-pound trauma patients out of crushed vehicles, Riley shifted her weight, locking her knees against his. She leveraged her entire body, lifting him smoothly off the mattress and guiding his mass into the carbon-fiber chair.
The movement took three seconds. Declan landed squarely in the leather seat, his breathing heavy, his hands gripping the armrests so tightly the leather groaned.
Riley stepped back immediately, smoothing down her navy scrub top. She picked up her coffee mug and took a sip.
"See?" she said. "No lamps thrown. Nobody in a barrel."
Declan looked up at her, his hands still shaking slightly from exertion and unspent rage. "You touch me without asking again, and I’ll have Gabe break your fingers."
"Gabe looks like he hasn't had a solid night's sleep since 2012," Riley replied, checking her watch. "He’s not breaking anything. Now, do you want the blueberry oatmeal or the eggs? The chef tried to make some fancy kale quiche, but I threw it in the trash because you need actual calories."
Declan stared at her, the dark, dangerous silence creeping back into the room. But beneath his fury, a strange, long-buried feeling stirred. For six months, everyone in his life had treated him like a fragile vase or a dying king. His lieutenants looked at him with tragic reverence; his enemies looked at him like meat.
This annoying, messy woman in faded scrubs was looking at him like a bad patient who was wasting her time.
"Eggs," Declan muttered, turning his chair toward the bathroom. "And get rid of that terrible coffee. It smells like burnt tires."
"It's Dunkin', you snob," Riley called after him. "And it's keeping me alive!"
As the bathroom door clicked shut, Gabe slipped into the bedroom, his eyes wide as he looked between the open curtains and the empty bed.
"Is everything okay?" Gabe whispered, glancing around as if expecting to find Riley’s corpse hidden behind the wardrobe. "I heard shouting."
"She’s insufferable," Declan’s voice echoed from the bathroom, flat and menacing.
"I'll fire her immediately," Gabe said, reaching for his phone. "I'll call the agency—"
"Touch that phone and I'll fire you," Declan interrupted.
Gabe paused, his thumb hovering over the screen. He looked toward the kitchen hallway, where Riley was currently arguing loudly with the estate's Michelin-starred head chef about the proper way to fry an egg.
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A faint, dangerous spark flared in Declan's dark eyes as he caught his reflection in the mirror. He was still broken. He was still trapped in a body that felt like lead. But the stifling, suffocating air of his self-imposed mausoleum had just been shattered.
"She stays," Declan said quietly. "For now."
