Page 92 of Maddening Fixation

“No.”

“You need a doctor.”

“I said no.”

His hand shot out, gripping my wrist with surprising strength despite his injuries.

The sudden contact made me flinch.

“Take the next U-turn.”

“Listen—”

“Now.”

Every instinct told me not to argue.

His grip tightened just enough to make his point before he released me.

“Warehouse Six.” His breathing hitched. “Shadow Bay Docks.”

He paused, swallowing against the pain.

Even injured, every order carried absolute authority.

I hesitated only briefly before turning the wheel.

Growing up around organized crime had taught me one lesson better than any other.

When a wounded man with that kind of presence gave an order...

...you obeyed first and asked questions later.

The city lights gradually gave way to the deserted industrial district.

Warehouses lined both sides of the road like silent concrete giants, their rusted loading bays swallowed by darkness.

Inside the car, the stranger’s condition worsened.

His breathing became shallow.

His complexion noticeably paler.

He reached unsteadily into his jacket, fumbling for his phone.

His blood-slick fingers refused to cooperate.

The device slipped once.

Then again.

A frustrated curse escaped his lips.

Without thinking, I leaned across the center console.

“Let me.”

His fingers closed around my arm with startling force.