43. BLAKE
BLAKE
The fluorescent lights flickered overhead as I strode down the ER wing, my white coat snapping behind me like a shield of ice.
Another day in these sterile halls, now with the parade of interns trailing after me.
The familiar routine should have been comforting.
Instead, every step felt like an attempt to outrun what I’d done last night.
Years of carefully maintained control, shattered in one moment of weakness.
I’d spent so long fighting it, forcing my gaze away when she’d bite those full lips, steeling myself against the way her clothes hugged her curves, pushing down the heat that would build whenever she was near.
But last night, I’d finally let that wall crack.
The memory of her taste lingered on my tongue.
The way she’d trembled beneath my mouth, vulnerable and trusting, as I’d drawn her first orgasm with a man from her.
Damn if that knowledge, being her first, hadn’t branded itself into my soul.
When her trembling subsided and she’d reached for my waistband, everything I’d wanted was right there.
I could have buried myself in her, made her scream my name until sunrise.
Instead, reality had slammed into focus, and I’d done the hardest thing I’d ever done.
I’d walked away.
Without explaining why.
Maybe Scarlett was right; maybe honesty was the only way to salvage anything with Tessa now. Maybe I should have tried rather than coming into work early today.
But here I was, burying myself in cases with the kind of cold precision that sent interns scattering.
Better they fear me than see through the cracks in my armor.
Every time one approached with another theory about Tessa’s case, my jaw clenched tighter.
They seemed to think this was some kind of partnership, but as I’d explained an incessant amount of times, this was divide and conquer.
If they had a question that would speed up their theory, fine, but wanting validation for every half-formed thought?
Wasn’t the damn point.
“Dr. Morrison.” Dr. Katie Chen matched my pace, her Harvard credentials practically radiating off her pressed white coat. Her eagerness grated against my raw nerves today. “About your friend’s case?—”
“Patient,” I corrected, signing the chart a nurse thrust in front of me without breaking stride. Yes, in these halls, that’s exactly what Tessa had to be. Not the woman whose lips I’d memorized from across rooms for years, fighting the urge to taste them.
“Of course. I was wondering about any history of strep throat?”
I shot her a sideways glance, letting ice creep into my voice. “If it’s not in her file?—”
“Childhood records,” she pressed. “Even untreated cases. There are new studies showing long-term effects that could explain?—”
I stopped abruptly, causing her to stumble. “What are you asking for?”
Her body stiffened at my tone. I wasn’t trying to be an asshole today; evidently, it was seeping out of me like an oozing wound, thanks to last night.
“I need a complete childhood medical history, specifically focused on strep throat incidents, treated or untreated.”
I resumed walking, my tone clipped. “You’ll have it by end of day.”
Two hours and three emergency consults later, Dr. William Parker materialized at my elbow as I reviewed lab results.
Each case a welcome distraction from thoughts of Tessa, from wondering what she was doing right now.
Had she moved out? Would she be gone by the time I returned?
And if so, would she ever talk to me again?
“Sir—”
“Dr. Morrison,” I snapped, not looking up.
“Dr. Morrison,” he amended, clearing his throat. “Has the patient had any history of STDs?”
The lab results crinkled in my tightening grip. “Excuse me?”
“Given your personal relationship with the patient, I understand this is uncomfortable, but?—”
“The point. Get to it.” Ice dripped from every word.
“We need to rule out any STDs that went untreated for six weeks or longer.”
“If she did, it’d be in her records.”
I thought no one could upset me more than that whole STD thing, but it was the last intern who turned my world upside down. Rhet. The perpetual thorn in my side who was, infuriatingly, sometimes right.
“Dr. Morrison.” He fell into step beside me near the ICU.
“Working on that confident-doctor walk?” I asked. “Still looking a bit lost puppy.”
His cheeks reddened, but he pressed on. “The patient’s records?—”
“You have everything I have.”
“Not a psychological evaluation.”
“She was diagnosed with situational depression. Next?”
“Has anyone screened for factitious disorder?”
My nose found the tip of his in an instant, and I glared down at him. “Munchausen? You’re suggesting she’s doing this to herself?”
He glanced around the hallway, perhaps calculating the odds I’d slam him against the wall. Answer: high.
“You asked for help,” he muttered.
“So, you decided to be an ass about it?”
“With symptoms this scattered, we have to consider?—”
“She’s not doing this to herself. End of fucking discussion.” The words came out in a growl as I marched off.
“Then what about someone else?”
I spun back, jaw clenched. “Meaning?”
He rubbed his neck. “They ran a cardiac tox screen when her heart stopped, but I suggest we test for poison.”
The word hit like a defibrillator to the chest. Because, goddammit, he was right. The scattered symptoms, the clean tests, the progressive deterioration … it could all fit.
Someone might be poisoning her.
How had I not considered this? How could I have been so reckless?
Because you can’t imagine anyone ever trying to hurt her.
But someone had hurt her and was actively threatening her with letters.
And sadly, there could be other suspects.
The creepy voyeur neighbor. Her ex-boyfriend.
Scarlett, as charming as she might’ve seemed, well, you just never knew with people.
Who knew who else might be on the list, too, or what access they might have to Tess?
Even if she continued to stay with me—and that was a big if—she’d leave the sanctuary of my place daily to plan that godforsaken wedding, running errands, putting herself in the crosshairs of anyone who wanted to slip a little toxin into, well, her skin, her food, her clothing. You name it.
I pulled out my phone, already dialing. “Order a comprehensive toxicology panel. NOW.”
The sound of my footsteps echoed through the hall as one thought hammered through my mind: I had to get to Tessa and warn her.
Because if someone was doing this to her, they might succeed before I could figure out who or why.
I’d spent years fighting my feelings for her, had finally tasted what we could have, then walked away like I always do. But I couldn’t lose her. Not like this.