Taming the Bitch (COMPLETED)

Chapter IV - The Doctor

Vincent angled Gabrielle's hand toward the light, pushing her gently but firmly to examine the wound. Blood welled in a dark crescent across her palm.

"The cut is deep," he muttered, more to himself than to her, a hard frown settling between his brows. He brushed a few curls from her face, his touch unexpectedly tender. "I'm taking you to hospital."

That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say.

Gabrielle snatched her hand back and fixed him with a glare sharp enough to shatter glass. It was the first moment she looked remotely collected.

Up close, the stranger was disarmingly handsome—irritatingly so. Eyes a startling blue-violet, cheekbones made for magazine covers, the sort of jaw that suggested he'd never lost an argument in his life. And yet there he stood, hovering over her like she was some helpless debutante who'd fainted at a garden party.

"I said," he repeated tightly, "I'm taking you to hospital." He reached for her hand again, dabbing at the blood with a handkerchief drawn from his suit pocket.

Her gaze followed his movements. Who on earth was he? And why was he behaving as though her wellbeing was suddenly his personal business?

She rolled her eyes and yanked her hand away for the second time. "I don't need your help," she said, voice cold and clipped. Another one of her father's shadows, no doubt. A new bodyguard. A hired nuisance sent to monitor her life under the guise of concern.

Her entire childhood had been spent beneath watchful eyes—nannies, security, staff. All that supervision, and not once had she ever truly been safe.

She stepped past him, making for her car, but he seized her arm and pulled her back. His expression—equal parts frustration and concern—made her blink.

"You're bleeding," he snapped.

He raised his voice at her.
Absolutely not.

"And if you don't have it treated, you'll end up with an infection."

She nearly choked. Infection? Dramatic, much?

"I've long been dead," she bit back, surprised by her own words. "A small cut can't hurt me anymore."

The confession landed between them like a dropped blade. His face tightened.

She shoulder-checked him on her way past, leaving a trail of blood on the concrete. He stared after her.

"Stubborn brat," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair.

She reached her hummer, hissed in pain, and grabbed the door—only for it to slam shut under his palm.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" she barked.

"What's wrong with you?" he shot back, incredulous. "You're injured, you're bleeding everywhere, and you think you're going to drive this monstrosity? You can barely stand, let alone pilot a small tank."

Her jaw dropped. A hummer wasn't illegal. Nor was she incapable of driving it. But he looked genuinely baffled—as if she were a puzzle piece forced into the wrong box.

Before she could retort, he took her hand again, tying the handkerchief around it with efficient force. Then, without hesitation, he plucked the keys from her other hand.

"Give those back!"

"No." He caught her shoulders and steered her bodily to the passenger side. "Get in."

She stared at him, mouth agape.

"Get. In." His patience was hanging by a thread.

"Who do you think you are?!"

"Oh, for God's sake—just get in the damn car so I can take you to hospital, you insufferable brat."

She actually let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Why don't you crawl back to whatever hell you came from and leave me alone?!"

She lunged for the keys. He dodged, bent, and—before she knew what was happening—hauled her over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

"What the hell—put me down! PUT ME DOWN!"

She thumped his back; he didn't so much as flinch. He lowered her only when he reached the rear door, sweeping her into the back seat, his broad frame leaning over her.

He was far too close. Far too warm. And far too steady for her unruly world.

"I'm taking you to hospital," he said quietly, still braced above her.

"Absolutely not!" She shoved at his chest, to no effect. He was built like a wall.

"Hold your hand tight," he ordered, pulling away and shutting the door before she could scramble out.

"I'll call the police!" she yelled. "This is kidnapping!"

"Do as you like," he replied flatly, sliding into the driver's seat as if this were the most normal evening of his life.

She lunged forward, grabbing the wheel. The hummer swerved; horns blared.

"You brat!" He shoved her back with his shoulder and steadied the vehicle. "If you want to die, do it alone. Don't endanger everyone else on the road. What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Her anger faltered—just a fraction.

"What if you cause a crash? What if you kill someone? Can you live with that?"

Silence. She stared at him, stunned. And perhaps... sobered.

"Seatbelt," he said firmly. "Hand tight. I'm not hurting you. I'm taking you to be treated."

She exhaled shakily. Then, so softly he almost missed it, she whispered:

"I've... been kidnapped before."

His hands tightened on the wheel. He glanced back. She was pale—whether from blood loss, fear, or the near-accident, he couldn't tell.

"I'm not kidnapping you, Gabrielle," he said gently. "I'm trying to help. You're bleeding far too much for me to leave you."

She said nothing.

"My name is Vincent," he added, trying—awkwardly—to soften the air between them. "I'm not going to harm you. And I don't exactly look like a kidnapper."

Her voice drifted from the back seat, weak but firm. "Don't take me to a hospital."

"You need treatment."

"Just take me home."

"Gabrielle..."

Their eyes met in the mirror—hers dark and unreadable, his tight with worry.

"The Atelier," she said softly. "Take me there, Vincent."

The sound of his name in her voice knocked the breath from him.

He looked again. She was reclined now, as poised and regal as someone bleeding onto upholstery could be.

"I don't need a doctor," she said. "I am one."

He blinked. "You're a—"

"A doctor," she confirmed. "Before the tabloids made me into society's favourite scandal. I know how to clean a wound. Just take me home."

He stared at her through the mirror, stunned—and for the first time that night, wholly impressed.