Ruthless Princess: Claimed by Blood and Sinful Desire

I step off the curb and the world ends. There’s no screech of tires. No warning honk. Just the crushing impact of steel against bone. My body flies. Gravity gives up on me. I hit the pavement hard enough to rattle my teeth loose, and the air leaves my lungs in a wet gasp. Pain explodes in my side. White-hot. Blinding. I try to scream, but my throat’s full of copper. Blood. My blood. The streetlights above blur into streaks of neon fire. Voices shout, but they sound like they’re underwater. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. The blackness rushing in isn’t scary. It’s a relief. It swallows the pain whole. Beeping. That’s the first thing. Steady, rhythmic beeping. I try to open my eyes, but my lids feel like they’re glued shut. My body is a map of agony. Every inch hurts. Especially my ribs. Breathing feels like inhaling broken glass. "She's awake." A voice. Male. Clinical. I force my eyes open. Bright lights sting them. I blink, trying to clear the fog. I’m in a hospital room. Tubes snake out of my arm. "Where?" I croak. My voice sounds like I’ve swallowed gravel. "City General," a doctor says. He’s standing at the foot of the bed, holding a tablet. He doesn’t look at me. He’s staring at the screen like it’s a bomb about to go off. "You were hit by a car, Alina. You’re lucky to be alive." Lucky. Yeah, right. I try to sit up, but a sharp stab in my side slams me back down. "I can't pay," I wheeze. "I don't have insurance." That’s my first thought. Not the pain. The money. That’s the life of a waitress in Athens. The doctor finally looks at me. His face is pale. Sweaty. "Money isn't the issue, Ms... Kostas?" I frown. "Just Alina. I don't use a last name." I haven't used one since the foster system spit me out at eighteen. "The police ran your ID," he says, his voice tight. "But the hospital... we ran your blood work. Routine procedure for trauma victims." He taps the tablet. His hand is shaking. "When we entered your DNA into the national registry, it triggered a lock-down alert." I stare at him. The drugs are making my head spin. "A what?" "A familial match," he whispers. He looks at the door, then back at me. "A perfect match for a missing persons case from twenty years ago." I laugh, but it turns into a cough that tears at my chest. "You've got the wrong girl. I'm nobody. I’m just a waitress." "The system doesn't make mistakes like this," he says. He backs away. "The alert... it notifies the family immediately. And the authorities. But mostly the family." "What family?" I demand. My heart starts hammering against my ribs. "I don't have a family." "The alert came with instructions," the doctor says. He’s at the door now. "‘Do not discharge. Do not allow access. Secure the patient.’" "Secure me?" I try to rip the IV out of my arm. "I’m leaving." "You can't," he says. He looks terrified. "They're already here." He slips out the door and locks it. Click. I freeze. They locked me in. Panic, cold and sharp, cuts through the pain meds. I scramble to the edge of the bed, my legs trembling. I need to get out. I need to run. I’ve always been good at running. I slide my feet to the floor. The room spins. I grab the metal railing to steady myself. "Open the door!" I scream. "Let me out!" Silence from the hallway. Then, noise. Not the usual hospital sounds. Not gurneys rolling or nurses chatting. Heavy footsteps. Lots of them. Marching. I hear a nurse shout, "You can't go in there! That’s a restricted—" A loud thud cuts her off. Body hitting wall. My blood runs cold. I back away from the door, grabbing a metal tray from the side table. It’s flimsy, but all I have. The footsteps stop right outside my room. I hold my breath. The handle jiggles. Locked. "Open it," a deep voice growls from the other side. Like gravel grinding. "I... I don't have the key," a woman sobs. "I didn't ask for a key." The wood splinters. The sound is like a gunshot in the small room. The door doesn't just open; it explodes inward. I flinch, raising the tray like a shield. Four men fill the doorway. They’re massive. Walls of muscle wrapped in expensive black suits that cost more than my entire life. They don't look like cops. They look like death. The lead guard lowers his leg. He kicked the solid wood door off its hinges like it was cardboard. He scans the room, his eyes dark and empty behind sunglasses. He ignores the wreckage. He ignores the sobbing nurse in the hall. His gaze lands on me. I tighten my grip on the tray, my knuckles white. "Stay back," I warn. My voice shakes, but I hold my ground. He doesn't stop. He steps into the room, filling the space with the scent of leather and danger. The other three fan out behind him, blocking the exit. Blocking the light. "Found her," the lead guard says into his earpiece. He looks at me like I’m a package he’s been sent to collect. "Target secured."