God, I needed his touch eleven years ago.
“Shoshanna.”
He purrs my name in his deep tone, in a voice sexy and gravelly with sentiment. It’s an erotic sound that can make any girl boil from the inside out.
“Should we call someone?” I hear Jade ask nervously.
I manage to breathe the word out.“No.” But her voice has worked like a blade, severing the invisible pull between us enough to snap me back to where I am - to who I am.
Slowly opening my eyes, I am struck by the sight of his searing gaze on my face. So close. His eyes are as green-blue as I’ve ever seen them.
Oh. God.
And now I can’t tear my eyes away from his because there is this little freckle within his left iris that is neon emerald. And it means he’s on a knife’s edge of some emotion too powerful for him to handle. I used to call his eyes, ‘his mood rings’.
They clearly still are.
Is he thinking about that last day?
The sinking hole in my abdomen starts to hollow me out, heart and all. For a moment, I think he might bite me or kiss me or growl. And that’s always been him. The arousal of his passionate response, be it deadly and unpredictable or overwhelmingly intimate and gentle, is always moments away, hiding in that green speck.
I swallow hard and look down at his hospital gown. Somehow, I find enough sanity to say, “You need to get back to bed.”
His warm breath rushes down my neck like a literal caress, my skin prickling awake in response. I squeeze my thighs together. “Well then,” he mutters smoothly, emotion deepening his voice further. “You should probably take me back, Doc. Not sure I can make it on my own.”
He pushes off the wall, stepping backwards twice, giving me my first real look at him. And I’m not a shallow person, but this man shouldn’t be allowed to look so fucking gorgeous. It should be a crime. With a masculine jaw tight with emotion, colourful tattoos licking up from his neck and covering both arms entirely, being six foot five with a primal physique and ready to hunt and play and fuck and-
I clear my throat and begin walking towards his hospital room, desperately trying to ignore the feel of his eyes as they follow me. I can sense him stalking me up the hallway. Can see the nurses wide-eyed with shock.
Entering his room, I try to figuratively put my doctor hat on by pulling his chart off the foot of his bed.
A ridiculous move and stance, but what else can I do? He strides through the open door with the confidence and strength of a man who is infallible and invincible and wasn’t just fucking shot in the chest. There must be so much pain flaring through his body right now, but he looks unaffected by it.
“Do you want me in bed?” he asks, a salacious purr to his words.He’s flirting with me?
I don’t answer. Can’t. How can he be so damn calm, given our last conversation all those years ago? Does it not haunt him? Twist him up inside? Doesn’t the sight of me remind him of what I did to him?
I focus on the chart, my eyes scanning the words, none of them making any sense, while my mind churns with nervousness. I swallow hard, fighting with myself not to say anything stupid to him. As though talking might remind him of what I did. Stupid woman.
As he makes his way over and sits on the mattress, my eyes dart to the cannula in his hand, ripped straight from the giving set. “I might need some help getting in,” he jokes. And although he grins at me, his Butcher dimple pressing into the side of his cheek, I don’t see contentment or happiness in his eyes. He’s unpredictable right now, the glowing green in his irises telling me as much. I try not to notice, bouncing my eyes back to the chart, feigning a sense of nonchalance.
“Look at you,” he says, relieving me of the silence. I finally cave, staring directly into his gaze as I wrestle to control my emotions.
You’re not angry anymore?
Why are you here?
He drags his gaze down my body in an indecent way, causing my left leg to buckle beneath his piercing eyes. “I’m so proud of you, baby. All grown up and wearing your scrubs like armour.”
As though he just reminded me that I’m a doctor - his doctor - my eyes find his wound, my throat tightening. “You were shot.”
“I’m fine, baby. Don’t you worry about me.” He shifts his weight on the bed, nodding in my direction. “Are you happy with your life?”
God, that’s a horrible question. Or maybe, maybe it’s just one of those things you say to someone you haven’t seen in eleven years. It is just like asking about the weather. I glance around the room, seeking a moment of peace from his cutting gaze. It’s a simple question really, but impossible to answer. Do I try to explain myself again? Do I tell him that every happy memory we shared was drowned out by his anger that day? That all I can feel now when looking at him is sorrow and guilt?
That I’m not happy.
No.