Devoured By Eden (Eden #3)

Chapter 1 Chloe

Chapter one

Chloe

If I puke one more time before rounds, I might have to call it a personal best. I’m so fucking tired I could cry.

This is bone-deep, knees-buckling, “I might pass out on the bathroom floor” exhaustion.

The kind that makes your brain lag like a buffering video and wonder if you can pause… everything for a second to catch up.

The stench of bile wafts up from the porcelain bowl. I lean over the toilet, spitting out the last of the acid that burned its way up my throat. My whole body shakes and shivers.

Grabbing a fistful of paper, I swipe my mouth and flush before I gag again. With my forearms bracing on the seat, I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to breathe through it.

In. Out. Three deep breaths.

I push to standing, legs wobbling, head spinning—and all I can think is: of course it happens today. Murphy’s law is such a bitch. And for what? One stupid slice of pizza. Probably that pineapple. I bet it was the fucking pineapple.

I stagger to the sink, splash cold water on my face, and scrub my hands, the sting sharp against my skin. It’s a fleeting relief before the next wave of nausea hits. Pressing a wet palm to the back of my neck, I count down the seconds until the dizziness fades.

My hand dives into my pocket, finds the anti-nausea pills by touch.

I toss back two and swallow them with a palmful of tap water.

When I look in the mirror, bloodshot eyes, blotchy skin, and smudged mascara stare back at me.

If someone walked in right now, they’d probably guess I’d been partying for a week—not puking up in a hospital toilet on my first day at work.

“Confident. Capable. In control,” I tell my reflection—my mantra since last night. “You’ve got this.”

I yank my ponytail tighter, like I’m strapping on armor, square my shoulders, and push open the bathroom door.

St. Vincent’s ER reeks of bleach, antiseptic, and poor life choices.

IV drip machines beep in rhythm with heart monitors in a sad hospital remix, complete with moans and cries in the background.

It’s chaos, sure, but weirdly choreographed.

Everyone’s dancing to a disaster they’ve practiced a hundred times.

Two people in green scrubs like mine linger near the entrance.

The guy’s gripping his notepad, wide-eyed and blinking, as if he just realized med school didn’t cover this part.

The girl next to him? Cool as ice. Her self-assurance either comes from knowing her shit—or being completely delusional. Hard to tell yet.

“Hey, you guys interns?” I ask, making my way toward them.

“Yeah,” the guy replies, stepping forward. “Jaxon. But you can call me Jax.”

I shake his hand. “Chloe.”

Jesus, he looks young. I mean, barely legal young.

I know I’ve got the baby-face curse too—great for Eden, not so much here—but Jax?

He could have easily wandered straight out of a Disney Channel audition and into his dad’s scrubs.

Total baby-deer energy: wide eyes, fragile frame, one stern voice away from snapping in half.

I want to swaddle him in a weighted blanket and tell him everything’s going to be okay.

“Nice to meet you,” he adds, cheeks flaring red. Even his ears blush. It’s kind of cute.

The woman next to him rolls her eyes.

“Dr. Sienna Rhodes,” she announces crisply, smile razor-sharp. “And you can call me Dr. Rhodes.”

She gives me the once-over, slow and deliberate. Her lip twitches, and I catch that glint in her eye: challenge accepted.

Awesome. Nothing says female empowerment like being eye-fucked by Regina George in scrubs.

“Napoleon Dynamite and I were starting to think you’d bailed. Come on,” she says, already striding off.

“I told you not to call me that,” Jax mutters.

I bite my lip hard. The resemblance is… uncanny. All he’s missing is the perm and a VOTE FOR PEDRO badge.

“Relax, it’s a term of endearment,” Sienna chirps, walking backward, hands up in faux innocence. “We’re friends, right?”

“Sure.” He sighs and shoots me a look—half pleading, half disbelief.

I shrug. Welcome to the jungle, Bambi.

We approach the ER central station, and I barely register the man perched on the edge of the desk, flipping through a chart with his back to us. Staff are already gathering, pulled toward him as if the department pivots on his presence.

Then he turns.

And my feet freeze. Someone’s yanked the plug on my motor cortex.

I blink once. Twice. Nope. Still there. That jawline. That mouth. That stupidly broad back I’ve definitely clawed at. And that gruff American voice—casually chatting to a nurse as if it hasn’t whispered filth against my neck.

No.

Fucking.

Way.

The man who’s had his lips on every inch of me is now standing under hospital-grade fluorescents, flipping through charts like he’s in charge of something other than my orgasms.

At my hospital.

“Oh shit,” I whisper under my breath.

“You coming?” Jax glances back at me.

I nod and somehow move, praying my legs won’t betray me by collapsing mid-stride. The bile makes a dramatic comeback, burning up my throat, demanding an encore performance.

Z looks up. His gaze sweeps across the group, then hits me. Dead on.

For a split second, his eyes widen. Then narrow, fast, shutting down.

To everyone else, it’s nothing. Just a blink.

To me? It’s a siren. Neon red, screaming ABORT MISSION in the middle of the ER.

I know that look.

Recognition.

And worse—dismissal.

“Good morning, good morning. I’m Dr. Zachery Bennett, but feel free to call me Dr. Zac.”

His tone is smooth, professional, a far cry from the dirty groans whispered in the dark. I roll my lips inward, trying not to smile when I hear his full name.

“This morning we’ve got some new faces joining us. Let’s start with our Resident Medical Officer, Dr. Hannah Ellis. She’s joining us for a second rotation in our department.”

A brunette with glasses gives a stiff wave. “Hey! Glad to be back,” she says, shoving her hands into the pockets of her white coat.

Zac glances at the clipboard in his hand, then nods toward Jax. “Dr. Jaxon Wells, I presume? Intern, second rotation.”

“Oh, um—hi,” Jax says. “Nice to meet you all.”

Zac’s eyes land on me again.

“Dr. Chloe Monroe,” I say. “Intern. First rotation.”

His eyes linger a second longer than they did with Jax, then move on to Sienna.

Cool, cool. Definitely not sweating through my scrubs.

“Dr. Sienna Rhodes,” she says with a smile you wear when you’ve already decided you’re the main character. “Intern. Fourth rotation.”

He returns her textbook-professional smile. “Welcome to the Chop Shop,” Zac announces, spreading his arms. “Where miracles happen—and we try not to kill anyone before lunch.”

It’s almost funny how polished he looks in those scrubs and white coat when I know exactly how he sounds when he’s coming undone.

A nurse leans over from the nearby desk, a red phone wedged between her ear and shoulder. “We got two traumas coming from the helipad. ETA ten minutes.”

“Copy that,” Zac replies, then gestures toward her. “That’s Olivia, our head nurse. She’s your boss, your savior, and the person most likely to ruin your life if you screw up. Do what she says—immediately.”

Of course the scariest person in the room isn’t the guy who’s seen me naked; it’s the nurse with resting murder face.

Olivia lifts an unimpressed brow, still on the phone.

“Our beds are jammed. Patients are waiting for admissions upstairs, so we’re running tight. Be fast, be smart, and don’t let anyone die while waiting to be seen. Triage order only.”

He gestures toward two other doctors. “Your senior registrars—Dr. Addison Clarke and Dr. Patrick Kensington. You report to them. They report to me.”

Hierarchy established. Alpha energy radiating. And now I know who to avoid when shit hits the fan.

“Questions?” he asks, scanning our faces.

Silence.

“Alrighty then. Let’s do this.”

The six of us trail behind Zac to the first patient. Notepad out. Pen ready.

Dr. Clarke grabs the chart and reads it aloud. “David Morgan. Forty-nine. Head wound after falling from a ladder. Ten stitches.”

Zac nods. “Morning, David. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” David grumbles. “When can I go home?”

Zac turns to the interns. “Excellent question. Who can tell me why he’s still in my ER?”

Before I even think, the words are out of my mouth—muscle memory kicking in like I’m back in finals week, running on caffeine and blind panic.

“What caused Mr. Morgan to fall off the ladder in the first place?” I counter.

Zac’s head tilts. His eyes find mine, and for half a second, everything else in the room blurs.

“Well done, Dr. Monroe. That’s the right question.” He turns back to the group. “David wasn’t pushed. Didn’t slip. He blacked out and doesn’t remember a thing. So, two-point question: what tests are we waiting on before he can be discharged?”

I don’t hesitate. “Head CT to rule out intracranial trauma, ECG for arrhythmia, and a full blood panel—electrolytes, glucose, cardiac enzymes.”

He stills for a beat, then lifts his gaze to mine again—and just like that, my heart’s in its own arrhythmia, and I realize I haven’t blinked in what seems like a lifetime.

“Correct.”

He turns to the patient. “David, Dr. Monroe will follow up on your labs and make sure we get you out of here soon.”

David nods. “Thanks, Doc. Appreciate it.”

Zac brushes past me, close enough that I catch a hit of his cologne. My lungs finally remember how to work, and I breathe out. Totally not flustered.

“What a suck-up,” Sienna mutters as she breezes by.

Wow. That didn’t take long.

I already know what she is: queen bee in a lab coat. The type who needs to be the smartest, loudest, and hottest in the room. And I’ve met her kind before. Hell, I’ve sat next to her in every science class since puberty. Glitter pens, perfect grades, backhanded compliments. The works.

She wants drama. A sparring partner. Someone to rattle.