Chapter 14
Sebastian
My fingers clamp around the back of his neck hard enough to make him stiffen and his bravado wilts.
I don't need to look at his face to know the exact moment fear replaces his arrogance, I can feel it in the sudden rigidity of his muscles, the slight tremor that travels from his spine to my grip.
What I do need to see is Mia's face, those green eyes wide with shock as they lock onto mine across the small space between us.
The club lights paint her skin in alternating shades of blue and purple that can't hide the flush of anger coloring her cheeks.
"Let go of me, man," the guy protests, his voice pitched higher than it probably was when he was whispering in Mia's ear. He tries to twist away, but I simply tighten my grip, pressing my thumb into a pressure point that makes him grimace.
"She said no." My voice is calm, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me.
Ten minutes ago, I was at the bar, nursing a bourbon I didn't want, silently cursing Arjun for dragging me to this sensory nightmare of a club.
Then I saw her—Mia in a dress that clings to every curve I've been desperately trying to forget, her wild red curls loose around her shoulders, her freckled skin glowing under the pulsing lights.
I'd watched her, helpless to look away, as this asshole approached her. Watched as she tried to maintain distance. Watched as his hands wandered where they had no right to be. And something in me—something primal and possessive that I didn't know existed—snapped.
"Look, it was just a misunderstanding," the guy whines, his expensive cologne mixing with the sour smell of fear-sweat. "We were dancing, that's all."
I force him to turn and face Mia directly, my hand still firm on the back of his neck. "Apologize," I command, the single word carrying enough threat to make him swallow hard. "Properly."
He clears his throat, eyes frantically roaming over Mia’s furious face. "I'm sorry if I came on too strong." The apology is so halfhearted it makes my jaw clench.
"Try again." I dig my thumb slightly deeper into that sensitive nerve cluster. "Like you mean it."
His eyes widen, a flicker of genuine fear replacing the annoyed entitlement. "I'm sorry," he says directly to Mia. "I shouldn't have touched you like that after you asked me to stop. It won't happen again."
Mia's chin lifts slightly, her eyes cold as she gives a single, sharp nod of acknowledgment. Something about the regal way she accepts his apology without offering absolution makes my chest tighten with an emotion I can't, or won't, name.
"We're done here," I tell him, releasing his neck with a small push that sends him stumbling backward. "Leave."
He doesn't need to be told twice. With one last confused glance between us, he disappears into the crowd, probably already looking for his next target. I watch him go, making sure he's truly retreating before turning my full attention to Mia.
And fuck, what a sight she is. That dress—emerald green that makes her eyes look like summer leaves—hugs every curve I've been trying to forget since I stood in her apartment doorway.
It stops mid-thigh, revealing legs that seem to go on forever.
Her hair cascades around her shoulders in wild curls that my fingers itch to tangle in.
She's wearing makeup—not much, just enough to emphasize those remarkable eyes and the full lips currently pressed into a thin line of fury.
"Are you alright?" I ask, having to lean closer to be heard over the pounding bass. The scent of her perfume—something citrusy and floral that I immediately want to taste on her skin—floods my senses.
"I had it handled," she snaps, her voice tight with anger. The flash in her eyes tells me that anger isn't just directed at the handsy asshole who just left, but at me as well.
Unable to help myself, I arch an eyebrow. "Clearly, that's why he had his hands all over you while you were trying to get away."
"I was about three seconds away from breaking his nose when you decided to play white knight," she fires back, taking a step closer so we're almost chest to chest. "I don't need rescuing, Dr. Walker."
The formal title stings, especially here, in this dark, pulsing space so far removed from the sterile hospital corridors where I've been treating her like she's invisible all week. "Sebastian," I correct her. "We're not at work, Mia."
"Oh, now you want me to call you Sebastian?" Her laugh is sharp, cutting through the music. "Let me guess, tomorrow it'll be back to Dr. Walker, and you'll be dismissing everything I say in front of the entire team? No thanks. I'll stick with what I know."
I deserved that, still, I don't back away. Can't back away. Not when she's looking at me like that, all fire and fury and fucking magnificence.
"What are you even doing here?" she demands, gesturing around at the club with a sweep of her arm that nearly collides with a passing dancer. "This doesn't exactly seem like your scene, Dr. Frosty."
"Dr. Frosty?" I repeat, caught between annoyance and reluctant amusement.
"It's what the nurses call you," she informs me, a hint of satisfaction in her tone. "Behind your back, obviously. Though lately they've upgraded it to Dr. Absolute Zero, given how you've been treating certain fellows."
I should be offended. Instead, I fight the urge to smile.
Even furious, even hurling well-deserved insults at me, she's captivating.
"My friend dragged me here," I answer her original question, nodding vaguely toward where I last saw Arjun chatting up a woman at the bar.
"Said I needed to, quote: get laid or get therapy, preferably both. "
Her eyes widen slightly at my bluntness, and for a moment I think I see the corner of her mouth twitch upward before she suppresses it. "Your friend sounds smart," she says. "Though I'm not sure this place has therapists on staff."
"Funny." I step closer, not entirely of my own volition. We're already standing too close, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her green irises, close enough that if I leaned down just slightly, my lips would brush against hers. "What about you? This doesn't seem like your scene either."
"Laney's idea," she admits, a flicker of vulnerability crossing her face before she masks it. "She thought it would help me forget about—" She cuts herself off abruptly, cheeks flushing darker beneath her freckles.
"Forget about what?" I press, though I'm pretty sure I know the answer.
"Work," she says firmly. "Forget about work. And it was going great until my boss showed up and started manhandling the locals."
"Your boss," I repeat. "Is that all I am to you, Mia?"
Something shifts in her eyes, a flash of the same heat I've been fighting since the moment I first saw her. "You tell me," she challenges with a lift of her chin. "What am I to you besides an inconvenient fellow who doesn't know her place?"
Before I can formulate an answer that won't reveal too much, a hand claps down on my shoulder.
"Sebastian, there you are," Arjun's voice cuts through our bubble, his cheerful tone oblivious to the tension he's interrupting. "And Dr. Phillips. What a surprise." His eyes dart between us, widening slightly as he registers our proximity.
"Dr. Patel," Mia acknowledges, taking a step back that feels like miles. "Nice to see you." She gestures vaguely between us, her shoulders straightening as she makes a visible decision. "Enjoy your night, gentlemen. I'm leaving."
Before I can respond, she turns and pushes through the crowd, the green of her dress visible for a few moments before it disappears into the sea of bodies. I watch her go, feeling something vital slipping away with each step she takes.
"Go after her, you idiot," Arjun says in my ear, giving me a not-so-gentle shove in Mia's direction. "Or are you planning to spend another week torturing everyone at the hospital with your unresolved sexual tension?"
He's right. I know he's right. But my feet remain rooted to the spot for one more heartbeat, fear and desire waging their familiar war inside me.
Then I move, shouldering through the crush of bodies, following the path I saw her take toward the exit. I can't let her go. Not like this.
By the time I break free of the club's entrance, stumbling onto the sidewalk where the night air hits me like a slap of clarity, I spot her halfway down the block—that green dress a beacon under the streetlights, her red curls bouncing with each angry stride she takes away from me.
"Mia!" I call after her. She doesn't slow down. If anything, her pace quickens, those long legs eating up the distance between her and whatever escape she's seeking. "Mia, stop!"
She ignores me, of course. Why wouldn't she, after a week of me ignoring her? The irony isn't lost on me as I break into a jog. The sidewalk is crowded with weekend revelers, but they part around my determined approach like water around a stone.
I catch up to her at the corner, my hand closing around her upper arm before she can step into the street. "Mia, wait."
She whirls to face me, jerking her arm from my grip with enough force that I let go immediately, not wanting to hurt her. "Don't touch me," she hisses, eyes flashing with the same fire I've been trying to extinguish all week in the hospital.
Without thinking, I guide her away from the curious onlookers on the sidewalk, into the narrow alley between the club and the building next door.
The bass from Pulse thumps against the brick wall, a steady heartbeat that matches the one pounding inside my chest. The alley is dim, lit only by the spill of a security light near a service door and the ambient glow from the street.
"What do you want?" she demands, backing away until she hits the opposite wall. She crosses her arms over her chest, a physical barrier between us. "Haven't you done enough this week?"
I open my mouth to respond, but she's not finished.
"You know what? No. You don't get to follow me out here and say whatever rehearsed apology you've concocted.
" Her voice rises and trembles with emotion.
"You've been nothing but cold to me for an entire week.
Dismissing my ideas, humiliating me in front of patients, treating me like I'm some first-year resident who doesn't know basic medicine. "
Each accusation lands with pinpoint accuracy, striking the guilt I've been carrying all week. I stand rigid, jaw clenched, unable to deny any of it.
"And now you're what? My knight in shining armor? Rushing in to save me from the big bad club guy?" She laughs, the sound sharp and brittle. "I don't need saving, Sebastian. I need consistency. I need to know which version of you I'm dealing with on any given day."
I take a step closer, drawn to her fury like a moth to flame. "I know," I admit, the words scraping my throat on their way out. "I know I've been... difficult."
"Difficult?" she repeats incredulously. "Try cruel. Try unprofessional. Try emotionally constipated and completely fucking impossible." Her chest heaves with each word, her breathing quick and shallow with anger.
That last one stings in a way the others don't, cutting straight to the core of who I am. Or who I've become.
“I hate you,” she spits, though her voice lacks conviction. “One minute you’re ice-cold, the next you’re acting like you—”
“What?” I murmur. “Say it.”
Her chin lifts, eyes bright with challenge. “You don’t get to demand anything. Not after the way you—”
Her words cut off as I close the distance between us in one fluid movement. My hands frame her face, fingers threading through those wild curls I've been fantasizing about for weeks, and I crush my mouth to hers with all the desperation I've been fighting since that night in her apartment.
She goes rigid against me, her hands coming up to push against my chest, but I don't pull away. Can't pull away. Not when her lips are softer than I imagined, not when the taste of her floods my senses and short-circuits every rational thought in my head.
For a heartbeat, she remains frozen, her body caught between resistance and surrender.
Then something breaks in her, and she's kissing me back with a ferocity that steals my breath.
Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away, and I groan against her mouth as she opens for me.
Pressing her back against the brick wall, I cage her in with my body as one hand slides down to grip her waist. The thin fabric of her dress does nothing to hide the heat of her skin beneath, and I want to tear it away, to map every freckle with my tongue until she's gasping my name.
She bites my lower lip, hard enough to make me hiss, and I retaliate by sliding my tongue along hers in a way that makes her arch against me. The small sound she makes goes straight to my cock, and I press closer, letting her feel exactly what she does to me.
"Shit," she breathes against my mouth, her voice shaky and breathless. "Sebastian, we can't—"
"We are," I correct her, my voice rough as gravel. I trail my lips down the column of her throat, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling her pulse race beneath my mouth. "We're doing exactly what we both want."
Her head falls back against the brick, exposing more of her neck to my ministrations. "This is crazy," she whispers, but her hands are still gripping my shirt, still holding me close. "You're my boss. This is—"
"I don't give a fuck about any of that right now," I growl against her skin, nipping at the sensitive spot where her neck meets her shoulder. She gasps as her hips jerk forward, and I have to brace my forearm against the wall to keep from losing control entirely.
"One week," she pants. "One week of treating me like dirt, and now you think you can just—"
I silence her with another kiss, this one deeper, more demanding. My tongue sweeps against hers, claiming her mouth with a possessiveness that should terrify me but only makes me want more. When I finally pull back, we're both breathing hard.
"I'm sorry," I say, the words torn from somewhere deep in my chest. "I'm sorry for being a fucking bastard. For pushing you away when all I wanted was to pull you closer."
Her eyes search mine in the dim light. "Why?" she whispers. "Why treat me like that?"
"Because I'm a coward," I admit, the truth bitter on my tongue. "Because wanting you terrifies me more than anything I've ever felt."