Stripping For My Devil Ex Husband

​Twenty minutes later, dressed in a simple, oversized cashmere sweater and dark trousers provided by Victoria, Anastasia sat in the private prep room while a trauma physician placed four delicate, sterile butterfly stitches along the split flesh of her cheekbone.

​The sting of the antiseptic barely registered. Her dark eyes were fixed on the hallway outside.

​The moment the doctor finished taping the small gauze pad over her wound, a sharp, mechanical click echoed down the corridor.

​The blinding red IN SURGERY light flickered and died.

​Anastasia pushed past the physician and strode into the hallway. Victoria, Valerie, and Jullian were already gathered near the heavy double doors as the lead surgeon pushed through, tearing off his blood-spattered surgical cap, his face pale with bone-deep exhaustion.

​Victoria stood tall, her manicured nails digging into the strap of her bag. "Doctor. Speak."

​"We stabilized him, Mrs. Sterling," the chief surgeon breathed, letting out a ragged sigh. "It was touch and go. The first round entered his right subscapular region, fracturing the shoulder blade and missing the subclavian artery by millimeters. The second bullet tore into the thoracic paraspinal muscle, chipping the lateral process of the T6 vertebra."

​Ana’s breath hitched in her throat. "His spine..."

​"The spinal cord itself is intact, but the trauma, internal hemorrhaging, and shock to the nerve bundle are severe," the doctor explained solemnly. "We extracted both slugs, repaired the collapsed lung, and stopped the massive arterial bleeds. He is in a medically induced state in the private ICU. We have him under heavy neurological and vital monitoring. The next forty-eight hours are critical."

​Within minutes, Walter’s armed tactical security locked down the entire fourth-floor ICU wing. Every entrance was sealed behind biometric checkpoints, heavily armed guards flanking every corner.

​In the dimly lit room, the only sound was the slow, rhythmic beep... beep... beep of the cardiac telemetry monitor and the faint hiss of the oxygen line.

​Anastasia sat alone on a low steel chair by the edge of the bed.

​Damian lay motionless beneath the white linen sheets. His broad shoulders and chest were heavily bound in thick, sterile compression bandages.

IV lines snaked into both of his bruised forearms, while an oxygen cannula rested beneath his nose. The color had drained from his sculpted, aristocratic features, leaving his skin cold and pale under the blue moonlight filtering through the high blinds.

​Ana stared down at him, her throat tight with unsaid words and an agonizing war of emotions.

________________________

The quiet hum of the private ICU was broken only by the rhythmic beep... beep... beep of the heart monitor.

​Exhaustion and emotional shock had finally taken their toll on Anastasia. Slumped forward in the low armchair beside the bed, her head rested against the edge of the mattress, her dark hair spilling across the white sheets.

Worn out from the trauma, she had drifted into a restless, heavy sleep, one hand lying open and limp beside Damian’s hip.

​Under the faint blue glow of the monitors, the rhythm of Damian’s breathing subtly shifted.

​The heavy fog of sedatives and severe surgical trauma receded just enough to pull him toward consciousness. A low, raspy intake of breath hitched in his chest as pain flared through his bandaged spine and shoulder.

​Damian’s dark eyelashes flickered, and his obsidian eyes slowly cracked open.

​Dull and clouded with pain, his gaze didn’t wander to the IV lines, the oxygen cannula beneath his nose, or the sterile white walls. His eyes dropped immediately to the woman sleeping at his bedside.

​Seeing her pale face, with the stitches taped over her swollen cheek, his jaw tightened.

​Weakly, fighting the paralyzing ache in his torso, Damian dragged his right arm across the linen.

​Ana didn’t stir... she was too deeply lost in sheer exhaustion to feel the slight rustle of the sheets.

​With slow, agonizing effort, Damian’s heavy, calloused fingers closed around hers. He laced his cold fingers tightly through her delicate ones, anchoring her palm against the mattress in a firm, desperate, possessive clasp.

​He didn’t wake her. He simply lay in the dim quiet, his dark eyes fixed entirely on her sleeping form, refusing to let go.

Pale gray morning light filtered through the blinds, casting thin, cold stripes across the private ICU suite.

​Anastasia shifted in the armchair, the stiff ache in her neck slowly pulling her out of an exhausted, dreamless sleep. Her dark eyelashes fluttered open, her senses immediately flooded by the sterile smell of antiseptic and the steady, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor.

​She went to lift her hand to rub her eyes, but couldn’t move it.

​Her fingers were completely locked in a tight, unyielding grip.

​Ana’s gaze snapped down to the bed.

​Damian was awake.

​He was propped slightly against the pillows, the oxygen cannula still resting beneath his nose, the heavy compression bandages binding his broad chest.

His sculpted face was pale, shadowed with the sheer physical strain of surviving two hollow-point rounds, but his obsidian eyes were wide open... burning with a dark, suffocating intensity as he stared down at her.

​He hadn’t let go of her hand all night.

​A wave of heat and suffocating tension rushed through Ana’s veins. For a second, the relief of seeing him breathing almost overwhelmed her, but the memory of the warehouse, the blood, and Vivian’s venomous words surged back with ruthless force.

​Ana tried to slide her fingers out of his grasp, but Damian’s grip only tightened, refusing to yield even an inch.

​"Let go, Damian," she whispered, her voice rough and strained from tears.

​Damian didn’t release her. He just watched her, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths.

​The silence between them stretched, thick and suffocating, until Ana couldn’t hold the fire in her chest any longer. She leaned forward, her dark eyes welling with raw, furious tears as she looked straight into his dark gaze.

​"Why did you do it?"

Ana demanded, her voice cracking with shattered disbelief and anger.

"Why did you throw yourself into the firing line? Why did you take those bullets for me when you made it so damn clear for two years that you don’t care about me? When you made sure I knew I was nothing to you... just a burden, an arranged nuisance you claimed you never loved? Why bleed to death for someone you treated like a ghost?!"

​Her words hung in the sterile air, sharp as shattered glass.

​Damian didn’t look away. Not even a flicker of hesitation crossed his stony, bruised features.

​Slowly, fighting the agonizing drag of severed muscle and nerve trauma in his shoulder, Damian unlaced his fingers from hers. With trembling, agonizing effort, he raised his heavy hand upward, the IV line pulling taut against his forearm.

​His calloused fingertips gently brushed the edge of her jaw, rising slowly to trace the tender skin right beneath the butterfly stitches taped over her split cheek. His touch was burning hot against her cold skin, leaving a trail of electricity in its wake.

​Damian’s jaw tightened, his obsidian eyes darkening into an abyss of raw, unhinged possession.

​He parted his dry, pale lips, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rasp.

​"Because, Anastasia..."

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