17. BLAKE
BLAKE
Chuck, my charge nurse, gave a professional nod.
We’d done this dance countless times, helping claustrophobic patients face their tube-shaped demon.
Minutes later, I stood in the fluorescent-lit hallway outside her room, wrapping up a call.
Through the half-open door, I watched Chuck introduce himself—his first interaction with Tessa since the nursing shift change—and when he reached up to adjust her IV, Tessa flinched.
Flinched.
Away from his hand.
That flinch set my pulse on fire, every hair on my arms standing on end.
Chuck didn’t seem to notice, administering the fast-acting sedative.
But I did. I caught every microsecond of that involuntary reaction. The slight crinkle of her face, the instinctive withdrawal, the sharp intake of breath. Time stretched, and suddenly, I couldn’t hear anything over the furious blood screaming in my ears.
I ended the call, forcing myself to breathe while every muscle in my body felt wired, primed for a fight with no target. In fact, I had to count to twenty, just to make myself move into her room without scaring her.
“Blake!” Tessa’s voice came out slurred, a loopy grin spreading across her face.
Jesus.
“You look grumpy,” she said, words swimming together.
“And you sound like you’re feeling no pain.” Despite the rage churning in my gut, I nearly smiled.
Evidently, she was adorable when loopy, but that earlier flinch haunted me.
Flinching meant history. Flinching meant someone had taught her to expect pain. Was it the same bastard who’d marked her collarbone?
“They’ll be here to bring you to the MRI soon,” Chuck said, excusing himself.
“Come closer.” Tessa patted her hospital bed.
I shoved my hands deep in my coat pockets, hiding their angry tremors as I approached. My fingers itched to trace that scar again, to decode its story.
She blinked with the exaggerated care of the heavily sedated.
Note to self: Tessa was a lightweight.
“Can I tell you a secret?”
I studied that damning scar. “I’m counting on it.”
“Back in high school, I thought you were the hottest guy I’d ever seen.”
She wouldn’t remember this confession tomorrow. The medication mix virtually guaranteed that.
“Cupcake, I thought you were the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.”
Her eyes went wide. “You did?”
“Still do.”
“I could never get a read on you.” She flopped her head sideways, fidgeting with her IV line.
“That boyfriend of yours in high school,” I said carefully, “did he hurt you?”
Tessa giggled, waving her hand dismissively. “He was a teddy bear. Couldn’t even work up the courage to kiss me.”
Jealousy that had been buried in a shallow grave started to unearth itself.
“Then who, Cupcake?” My voice came out rougher than intended. “Who gave you that scar?”
Her smile vanished, glazed eyes drifting to the wall. “I don’t like thinking about that.”
“Dr. Morrison?” A nurse appeared in the doorway. “They’re ready.”
“One minute.” I held up a hand, not looking away from Tessa. “Answer my question.”
She pressed her lips together, stubborn even through the haze.
“The MRI machine is overbooked today. We need to go now.”
“One. Minute.” Each word came out clipped.
The nurse planted her fist on her hip. Just my luck. One of the few not intimidated by me.
“There’s an ICU patient waiting,” she pressed. “We need to move.”
“A name, Tessa.”
But Tessa had retreated into silence. Goddammit.
The nurse wheeled the chair to the bedside, actually shooing me aside as she transferred Tessa into it.
“I shouldn’t have gone to that party,” Tessa murmured.
I blocked the wheelchair’s path, my heart suddenly a battlefield.
“Doctor—”
“Go get whatever damn patient is next. Come back for her.”
“That’ll take too long,” the nurse objected.
“Just give us a couple of minutes,” I snapped.
The nurse arched an eyebrow, looking between me and my patient like she was calculating whether this battle was worth her time. Apparently not.
She spun on her heel with a muttered, “Two minutes,” that sounded more like a threat than a concession.
I crouched before Tessa, forcing gentleness into my voice, even as acid burned through my veins. “What party, Cupcake?”
Tears welled in her glassy eyes, and something primitive in my chest howled at her pain.
“I shouldn’t have had three beers at a frat house,” she whispered. “I knew better.”
My muscles coiled tight, bracing for impact.
“He said he wanted to show me his book collection. I knew better than that too.”
Every cell in my body went cold.
“Who?” I fought to keep my voice steady. “Who wanted to show you his book collection?”
“It’s not like I just met him,” she said. “I had class with him. We’d talked before. I thought … I thought I could trust him.”
“Tessa.” I brushed hair from her face, touch featherlight. “Tell me what happened.”
Her lower lip trembled. “He …” She looked down. “He pushed me down. I told him no, but he was so strong …” She sniffled, unable to go any further.
I tilted her chin up with my finger, my other hand fisting at my side. “You don’t have to tell me more. But I need his name.”
“You don’t care what he did?”
I care more than my next breath.
“I won’t make you relive that hell. But I require a name.”
“He didn’t …” She tugged at my white coat like a child. “A guy mistook his door for the bathroom, so he got interrupted. He hurt me, but he didn’t fully … you know .”
“If you think that lessens his punishment, you’re wrong. His fate was sealed the moment he touched you.”
“I don’t want you to see me as damaged goods.”
Fresh rage exploded through me. She’d been the victim of something unimaginable, and now she lived with a scarlet letter on her self-esteem?
“Listen carefully.” I cradled her face. “Nothing, nothing, could make me think less of you.” When she pressed her forehead to my chest, I kissed her crown, breathing in the scent of her. “Knowing you survived this? It only proves what I’ve always known about your strength. Now. Please. A name.”
“Why do you want to know?” She pulled back, eyelids growing heavier.
Damn. Should’ve gone with 1 mg.
“Police said they can’t prove the letters are from him.”
I lifted her chin. “What letters?”
She tilted her head. “In movies, they have handwriting experts. How come they can’t do that?”
“Focus, Tessa. What letters? Did he contact you after?”
“Are you going to find out why I’ve been sick?”
I exhaled slowly, trying to find my patience. “Working on it. What’s from him? Did he contact you?”
“He was so handsome,” she mumbled, playing with her IV. “Could’ve had any woman. He didn’t need to …” Her lip quivered again.
“Name, Tessa. Give me his name. Now.”
Shit. Too harsh.
She tugged at my stethoscope. “Why? Do you think you know him?”
No. But he’ll know me tonight.
“One way to find out. Tell me his name.”
“Eric Voss.”
The name etched itself into my brain like a patient’s time of death. A moment where everything after would be measured as before and after.
Eric Voss. I’m going to fucking end you.