Sterling pointed at the twenty shot glasses.

"The rules are simple," he drawled, leaning back into the leather sofa. "Either you take off your clothes and crawl to the door..."

His eyes dragged over her soaked sweater.

Kip Holloway laughed loudly. He pulled out his phone and hit record. The other guys followed suit.

Arlene's stomach twisted. Bile rose in her throat.

"Or," Sterling continued, "you drink us under the table. If you can still stand and walk out that door, your scholarship is safe."

Arlene didn't hesitate. Stripping meant social death. Drinking meant physical pain. She walked straight to the table.

Sterling looked surprised for a second. Then his eyes turned vicious. "Let's make it interesting."

He grabbed a small glass bottle from the ice bucket. It was a specialty hot sauce. Pure capsaicin extract.

Arlene watched in horror as he walked down the line. He poured a thick, red drop of the oil into every single shot glass. The red liquid bled into the clear alcohol.

"Now it's fit for a Boone," Sterling sneered.

Arlene stared at the toxic mixture. Her throat already felt like it was burning just looking at it.

She picked up the first glass. Her hand was completely steady. She threw her head back and swallowed it.

The liquor sliced down her throat. The capsaicin exploded like a grenade in her esophagus. Tears instantly streamed down her face.

Her stomach cramped so violently she bent forward. She bit her lip until she tasted copper, refusing to make a sound.

"Hell yeah!" Kip whistled. "Keep going. Nineteen left."

Arlene's hand shook as she picked up the second glass. Then the third.

By the fifth shot, her vision blurred. The neon lights in the room smeared into red streaks.

Sterling watched her, looking bored. He hadn't expected her to actually do it.

She reached for the eighth glass. Her fingers gave out. The glass slipped and shattered against the table edge. A sharp piece of glass sliced across her palm.

Blood mixed with the spilled alcohol. The sharp sting of the cut gave her a second of clarity.

She reached for the ninth glass with her bloody hand. Her knees buckled.

"Looks like you're done," Sterling said. He stood up and walked over to her. He looked down at her sweating, tear-streaked face.

He grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw.

"Let's go with option one. Take off the shirt..." His hand moved down to grab the collar of her sweater.

The last thread of Arlene's sanity snapped. She shoved Sterling hard in the chest. She grabbed the bottle of pure capsaicin from the table.

Before anyone could move, she brought the bottle to her lips and tipped it back.

The raw spice hit her stomach lining. She gagged violently, spitting up a mouthful of blood and saliva onto the floor. But she didn't stop. She fumbled for another shot glass still standing on the table and downed it.

Sterling stumbled back. His face went pale.

Arlene's vision went completely black. Her body folded in half. She hit the liquor-soaked carpet with a sickening thud.

Hardie sat behind the mahogany desk in his private clinic. His long fingers turned the page of a patient file. His eyes were cold and focused.

His phone vibrated against the wood. A text from Julian Thorne lit up the screen.

Prescott's party is getting completely out of hand. A buddy of mine just forwarded this to the group chat from the Black Rabbit. Your family's little stray is there and it looks bad.

Hardie frowned. He tapped the video attachment.

The screen played. Arlene stood in a dark room. Blood dripped from her mouth. She chugged a bottle of red liquid, gagged, and collapsed like a broken doll onto the floor.

Hardie's pupils dilated. The expensive fountain pen in his hand snapped in two. Black ink splattered across the pristine medical records.

His breathing turned ragged. The thick sheet of ice he usually used to suppress his volatile emotions shattered instantly. A terrifying, violent fire erupted from the deepest depths of his chest, a raging inferno that he himself feared.

That was his girl. The girl he watched from the shadows. The girl no one was allowed to touch.

He stood up so fast his leather chair crashed backward onto the floor. The sound echoed in the quiet office.

He grabbed his phone and dialed Julian. His voice was absolute zero. "Which room?"

Julian stammered, caught off guard. "Man, it's just a joke. She's in the back VIP room. Prescott's got his whole crew in there..."

Hardie ended the call. He walked out of the office.

A nurse in the hallway opened her mouth to speak. She took one look at Hardie's eyes and stepped back against the wall, terrified.

He stepped into the elevator and punched the button for the parking garage. His knuckles were bone white.

He sprinted to the Aston Martin. The engine roared to life.

The tires screamed against the concrete as he sped out of the garage.

He dialed his head of security while weaving through traffic. "Get me the floor plan for the VIP rooms at the Black Rabbit. Now."

The image of Arlene hitting the floor played on a loop in his brain. It felt like a knife twisting in his gut.

He remembered her face in the alley. She lied to him. She went to a slaughterhouse instead of asking him for help.

The self-hatred burned his throat. He had let her walk in there.

He slammed his hand against the steering wheel at a red light. The horn blared.

His phone rang. "Sir, Mitch Kozlowski runs security for Prescott there."

"Tell Mitch he has three minutes to get her out of that room, or I will burn his club to the ground with him inside."

Hardie threw the phone onto the passenger seat.

The light turned green. He floored the accelerator.

She tore up his card. She would rather die than owe him.

The thought made his blood boil. He looked in the rearview mirror. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked like a murderer.

The Black Rabbit's neon sign glowed ahead. He had sat in the alley across the street and watched her walk through those doors. Now he wasn't waiting anymore.

Hardie didn't slow down. He drove the Aston Martin straight up onto the sidewalk, slamming the brakes right in front of the main doors.

Hardie kicked the heavy front doors of the club open. The metal hit the wall with a deafening crash. The music seemed to stop.

A bouncer stepped forward. Hardie didn't even slow down. He locked eyes with the man. "Mitch Kozlowski sent you?" Hardie's voice was a low, lethal drawl. "Tell Mitch that Hardie Boone is here to collect his property, or I'll have his head." The promise of death in Hardie's stare, combined with the casual drop of his boss's name, made the bouncer freeze and step aside.

Hardie walked straight to the back hallway. His leather shoes crunched over broken glass.

He reached the VIP door and kicked it open.

Sterling was standing over Arlene, yelling at a guy to drag her out the back.

Hardie's eyes found her. She was curled into a tight ball on the floor. Her clothes were covered in vomit and alcohol.

Sterling looked up. His face drained of color. "Dr. Boone? It's just a party..."

Hardie ignored him. He stepped over a puddle of liquor and dropped to one knee beside Arlene.

His hands shook as he pressed two fingers to the pulse point on her neck. Her skin was freezing. Her pulse was a weak, erratic flutter.

"Call an ambulance!" Hardie roared at the men by the door. His voice was raw and terrifying.

Arlene felt a hand on her neck. She flinched violently in her delirium. "Don't... don't hit me..."

Hardie's chest caved in. He slid his arms under her body and lifted her. He held her against his chest like she was made of glass.

She suddenly convulsed. She vomited blood and stomach acid directly onto the lapel of his custom suit.

Hardie didn't blink. He just pulled her head closer, making sure she didn't choke.

He turned and walked toward the door. He stopped right next to Sterling.

"This was just an accident. Right?" Hardie's voice was a whisper, but it cut through the room like a scalpel.

Sterling swallowed hard. He nodded frantically. "Yeah. She drank too much."

Hardie let out a dark, hollow laugh. He walked out of the club.

The freezing night air hit Arlene's face. She forced her swollen eyes open.

Through the blur, she saw the sharp line of Hardie's jaw.

"Put me down..." she whispered. Her throat felt like it was lined with razor blades. "I'm fine. I'm waiting for a friend..."

Hardie stopped walking. He looked down at the woman bleeding in his arms. The rage inside him ignited.

"Waiting for a friend?" He gritted his teeth. "You wait for a friend until your stomach bleeds? You wait for a friend until you're dying on a dirty floor?"

Arlene went completely still. The pure fury in his voice terrified her.

Hardie opened the passenger door of the Aston Martin. He placed her on the leather seat and buckled her in. His movements were rough, locking her in place.

He got into the driver's seat and slammed his door.

The silence in the car was suffocating. "You would rather die than call my number?" he asked.

Arlene turned her head toward the window. A single tear fell down her cheek. "I don't want your pity, Dr. Boone."

"Pity?" Hardie leaned across the console. His face was inches from hers. His breath was hot against her cold skin. "You lie to my face, tear up my card, and now you sit here bleeding and talk about pity?"

The sheer dominance radiating from him pressed her into the seat. She closed her eyes, unable to fight back.

Hardie threw the car into gear. He sped toward Harkness University Hospital.