RETURN OF THE LEGENDARY NORTHERN DRAGON

PLEASE DON'T HURT ME

The woman in Grayson's arms was dying.

He carried her through the storm toward his car, her blood soaking into his already-drenched uniform. Her breathing was shallow, irregular. The knife wound in her side wasn't immediately fatal, but she'd lost too much blood. Minutes mattered.

Grayson laid her across the back seat and drove like hell toward the one place nobody knew existed—his penthouse in Apex Tower. Not the delivery driver's life the Reeds thought he lived. His real sanctuary, registered under shell companies so layered even government agencies couldn't trace them.

The tower's underground garage was empty at this hour. Grayson carried the woman to his private elevator, punching in the security code with bloody fingers. The ride to the top floor felt eternal.

His penthouse door swung open to reveal what he'd kept hidden for three years—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, minimalist furniture that cost more than most people's cars, a space that screamed wealth and power.

Grayson laid her on the leather couch and stripped off his jacket. His hands moved automatically, muscle memory from too many battlefield surgeries taking over. He grabbed his emergency medical kit from the bathroom—the one stocked with military-grade supplies—and got to work.

The stab wound was deep but clean. Razor had aimed for her kidney and missed by inches. Grayson cleaned it with antiseptic, hands steady despite the rage burning in his chest. Who was she? Why did she have the same birthmark as Vanessa?

He threaded the surgical needle and began stitching. Twelve sutures, each one precise. She didn't wake, which was mercy—this would hurt like hell.

His phone buzzed. He'd texted Victor coordinates ten minutes ago.

The elevator dinged. Victor stepped out, expensive suit rumpled, eyes wide as he took in the scene—Grayson bent over an unconscious bleeding woman, blood on his hands, emergency supplies scattered everywhere.

"Sir, what happened? The Reed family just—"

Grayson's glare could strip paint. "Get medical supplies. Antibiotics, IV fluids, bandages. And find out everything about this woman. Everything."

Victor started to respond, then his eyes caught on the woman's exposed wrist. The butterfly birthmark. His face went white as snow.

"Sir... that mark..."

Grayson's voice dropped to something lethal. "Tell me why this woman has the same birthmark as Vanessa. Tell me right now."

Victor's mouth opened and closed. "I... I need to research. I'll bring the supplies and—"

"Move."

Victor fled back to the elevator like the devil was chasing him.

Grayson finished stitching and bandaged the wound. Her fever was climbing—infection setting in fast. He started an IV line, administered antibiotics, monitored her vitals. Hours blurred together. The storm outside raged on, rain hammering the windows, but Grayson didn't move from her side.

Near dawn, her fever finally broke. Her breathing steadied. Color returned to her cheeks, though she remained unconscious.

Grayson sat back and really looked at her for the first time. Her face was gaunt, cheekbones sharp from malnutrition. Bruises covered her arms—some fresh, some faded yellow-green. Her clothes were threadbare, held together by patches and prayer. But underneath the suffering, underneath the years of hardship, he recognized something.

Those eyes. Even closed, he remembered them. Kind eyes that had looked at a dying woman and starving boy and given everything without hesitation.

The elevator dinged. Victor returned carrying bags of medical supplies and a thick folder. He set everything down carefully, like approaching a wild animal.

"Her name is Ava Morgan," Victor said quietly, pulling out documents. "Twenty-seven years old. Parents deceased. No living relatives. Currently... homeless."

Grayson's jaw clenched. "How does someone with a butterfly birthmark end up homeless?"

Victor's hands shook as he opened the file. "Fifteen years ago, she helped a dying woman and her son. Gave them money her family had borrowed from loan sharks. Emergency funds meant to repay the debt."

The words hit Grayson like physical blows.

"Her father found out," Victor continued. "The loan sharks came for payment. When the family couldn't pay, they destroyed everything. Her father died of a heart attack during the harassment. Her mother committed suicide three months later out of shame."

Grayson's hands curled into fists. "And Ava?"

"She was twelve. Relatives took her in but treated her like a servant. Verbal abuse, physical abuse, making her work for food." Victor's voice was barely audible. "At fifteen, they abandoned her completely. Said she brought bad luck. She's been surviving alone ever since—odd jobs, homeless shelters, charity kitchens. No permanent address for twelve years."

Twelve years on the streets. Because she'd saved his life.

Grayson stood abruptly and walked to the window. The city sprawled below, lights beginning to glow as dawn broke. Somewhere out there, Vanessa Reed was sleeping in silk sheets, living in luxury built on money he'd given her. And the real girl—the one who'd sacrificed everything—had been starving in alleys.

"Sir," Victor said carefully. "About Vanessa Reed's birthmark—"

"Not now."

Behind him, Ava stirred. A soft moan escaped her lips. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and confused. She tried to sit up and immediately gasped in pain, hand going to her bandaged side.

Grayson crossed to her in three strides. "Don't move. You'll tear the stitches."

Ava's eyes found his face and terror flooded them instantly. She scrambled backward on the couch, pressing herself into the corner, every muscle tensed to run despite her injury.

"Please don't hurt me," she whispered. "I'll leave right now. I'm sorry I was at the cemetery. I didn't mean to trespass. Please just let me go."

Her voice broke something inside Grayson's chest.

"You're safe here," he said, keeping his voice gentle. "Those men are gone. You're not in trouble."

She didn't believe him. Years of cruelty had taught her that kindness was a lie, that mercy was just another trap.

Grayson knelt slowly, making himself smaller, less threatening. "Do you remember something that happened fifteen years ago? Near Westside Market?"

Ava blinked, confused by the question. "What?"

"A woman and a boy in an alley. The woman was dying. The boy was beaten. You gave them money."

Her eyes widened. Recognition dawned slowly, fighting through pain and fear and disbelief.

"The boy..." Her voice cracked. "Your mom... she had a jade pendant. She grabbed my wrist and said something about grace..." Tears spilled down her cheeks. "I gave you our medicine money. My father was so angry. He said I destroyed our family."

"You saved my life," Grayson said. "You saved my mother's life. She lived another six months because of you."

Ava shook her head, tears falling faster. "No. No, that's not right. I killed my parents. Everyone said so. My family said I was cursed. That I brought destruction to everyone I touched."

"They lied."

"They didn't! Look at me!" She gestured at herself—broken and bleeding. "Everything I touch turns to ashes. You should stay away from me. I'm poison."

Realizing how traumatized she was, Grayson reached out slowly and took her hand, She flinched but didn't pull away.

"My mother's last words were about you," he said quietly. "She made me promise to find the girl with the butterfly birthmark. To marry her. To protect her the way she'd protected us."

Ava stared at him like he'd spoken a foreign language, unable to process what she was hearing.