Claimed By My Ex-Fiancé's Ruthless Uncle

The jazz club was dark, smelling of old wood and bourbon. A saxophone wailed from the stage, a low, mournful sound that vibrated in the floorboards.

Helena sat at the far end of the bar. She had ordered a whiskey, neat. It burned going down, a necessary cauterization.

She wasn't drunk, but the edges of her vision were soft. The adrenaline from the evening was fading, leaving behind a hollow ache in her chest. She needed to use the restroom.

She slid off the stool and navigated through the tables, heading toward the back of the club. The corridor to the restrooms was narrow and dimly lit.

She pushed into the women's room. It was empty. The vintage copper mirrors reflected her face-pale, composed, but with eyes that looked like shattered glass.

She turned on the tap. The water rushed out, cold and loud.

In the mirror, a shadow moved.

It came from the last stall. The door was slightly ajar.

Helena froze. She smelled it before she saw it. Beneath the scent of lavender soap and air freshener, there was a sharp, metallic tang.

Iron. Blood.

Her instincts shifted. The heartbroken fiancée vanished; the forensic accountant, the woman who could spot a discrepancy from a mile away, took over. She reached to turn off the tap.

The stall door crashed open.

A hand clamped over her mouth. It was large, rough, and sticky with something wet.

Helena was yanked backward into the cramped stall. Her back hit the cold tiles hard.

"Quiet," a voice rasped in her ear. It was deep, strained, and laced with pain.

Helena didn't scream. She drove her elbow back, aiming for the solar plexus.

Her elbow connected with something wet and soft. The man groaned, a guttural sound of agony, and his grip loosened. He slid down the wall, dragging her with him until he was slumped on the toilet lid, and she was pressed against his legs.

The stall was dark, illuminated only by the light filtering under the door. Helena looked at her hand. It was covered in dark, viscous blood.

She looked at the man. He was wearing a black suit, but the white shirt underneath was soaked red at the abdomen. His face was in shadow, but she could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead.

She grabbed his wrist. His pulse was thready, fast.

He was going into shock from blood loss.

"Let go," Helena whispered, her voice steady. "I'm not a doctor, but you're bleeding out. You need pressure on that wound."

The man looked up. His eyes were obscured by the dark, but she felt the weight of his gaze. It was heavy, assessing. He hesitated, then released her arm.

Outside, the heavy door of the restroom creaked open. Heavy footsteps echoed on the tile. The static of a radio crackled.

"Check the stalls," a rough voice commanded.

The man in the stall stiffened. His hand went to his waistband, pulling out a small, black pistol. His breathing was ragged.

Helena put her hand over the gun. The metal was warm from his body heat.

"I can handle this," she hissed.

She didn't wait for his permission. She kicked off her heels. She reached up and messed up her hair, pulling strands loose. She grabbed the collar of her velvet dress and yanked it askew.

Then, she reached into her clutch and pulled out a small spray bottle of hand sanitizer-high alcohol content.

The footsteps stopped in front of their stall. A fist pounded on the door.

"Occupied!" Helena shouted. But she didn't use her normal voice. She pitched it higher, slurring her words, injecting a note of annoyed, drunken arousal.

"Baby, ignore them," she moaned loudly, stomping her foot against the floor to mimic a struggle. "Just kiss me."

She sprayed the alcohol into the air, filling the small space with the scent of spirits.

The pounding stopped.

"Damn drunks," the voice outside muttered. "Let's check the alley."

The footsteps retreated. The main door swung shut.

Silence returned to the bathroom, save for the dripping tap.

The man slumped back against the tank. He let out a breath that was half laugh, half groan.

"Nice acting," he murmured.

Helena ignored him. She knelt between his legs, disregarding the blood soaking into her expensive dress. She ripped the hem of her skirt to create a strip of fabric-the velvet tore with a sharp, wet sound.

"Shut up," she said. She balled up a section of the thick fabric and pressed it hard into the gash in his side. "Hold this. Press down like your life depends on it. Because it does."

The man didn't flinch. He just watched her, his eyes glinting in the dark, as he took over applying the pressure.

The bleeding slowed but didn't stop. Helena assessed the wound-deep, gaping, the edges of torn flesh visible in the dim light. He would bleed out before an ambulance arrived.

"You need stitches," she said.

"No hospital," he repeated, his voice a raw rasp.

Helena hesitated. Then she reached into her clutch again. Hidden in a small leather pouch, she always carried a miniature sewing kit-a habit from years of last-minute wardrobe repairs before gallery openings. She pulled out a curved needle and a spool of heavy, waxed thread.

"Don't move," she ordered. "This is going to hurt."