6. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Julianna
T he next time I wake, it’s to the smell of coffee and burning protein.
For a beat, I lie absolutely still, running through the sensations going through my limbs.
My body aches in glorious places. I can feel him everywhere, even in the bedsheet’s press against the back of my knees.
I’m not sure if I want to kill him or mount him again.
The thought alone leaves me flushed, throat dry, cunt already negotiating with itself for a repeat.
I don’t lose control like this… so what the fuck is it about him?
I roll to my side, eyes adjusting to the diffused light filtering through his blackout curtains. The bed is empty but still warm, a shallow dent where his mass should be. The linens smell like Creed and the faintest trace of whatever detergent serial killers buy in bulk.
I swing my legs off the edge, stand, stretch, every joint reporting in with gratifying complaint.
Naked, I cross to the window, pull the curtains apart an inch.
Outside, the city is caught in that brief, honest moment before rush hour: streets wet from last night’s rain, glass towers reflecting nothing but each other.
The effect is… sobering. I could almost pretend the world isn’t filled with men who would choke you for a pulse check and then make you breakfast.
On the nightstand, Creed has left a folded t-shirt for me. It’s black, soft, and several sizes too big. I put it on, then tie a knot at the hem so I don’t look like a rehab patient.
The apartment is silent except for the occasional hiss and sizzle from the kitchen.
I follow the sound, feet silent on the cold floor.
Everything is so bland. Right down to the art on his walls.
All streaks of grey, black and white. The only color is a single bowl of oranges on the counter, and even that feels like a statement of intent.
He’s at the stove, back to me, shoulders blocking out the weak sunlight.
He wears nothing but a pair of low-slung sweatpants, the band riding his hips.
If he turns around.. . I take a moment to admire the muscles in his back.
He looks even better in the light and I hate that it’s doing something to me.
Each line is a story I refuse to ask about. I’d rather make my own marks.
He doesn’t turn, but I know he’s clocked me the second I entered the room.
“Eggs?” he asks.
I slide onto one of the stools at the counter, folding my arms. “As long as it’s not an omelet. I hate when people scramble my protein.”
He glances over his shoulder, lips flickering. “Noted.” He lifts the pan, scrapes a pair of perfect over-easies onto a plate. Next, he pours black coffee into a plain mug and slides it across the counter toward me. I intercept it with one hand, studying the thin swirl of steam before I drink.
“You don’t put anything in it?” I ask.
His eyes do a full sweep of my face, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. “No.”
I sip. It’s bitter, hot, almost violent. “Figures.”
He sets the plate in front of me, then leans back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. Watching, always. I cut into the egg, the yolk breaking in a perfect, controlled spill. I take a bite, chewing, considering.
“You’re a good host,” I say, swallowing. “Was expecting less… hospitality.”
“You’re not a hostage,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Yet.”
“Right.” I take another bite, then set the fork down with deliberate precision. “Because you’re the type to fuck a girl half to death, then let her walk out the front door?”
“I fucked you half to life,” he corrects. “And yes.”
The silence is a game. I refuse to lose.
I finish the eggs, drink half the coffee, then push the plate away. “I need to get to the hospital by seven. I have two surgeries and a four o’clock consult.” I pause, letting the logistics hang. “You can untie the metaphorical leash now.”
He regards me for a moment, eyes narrowed, measuring something that has nothing to do with my words. “No.”
It’s not a threat. It’s not even a decision. It’s just a statement of fact, a diagnosis.
I laugh, sharp and involuntary. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
He smirks, the expression as controlled as everything else about him. “I get to do whatever I want. You’re the one who broke into my bed at three in the morning. Consent was established.”
“And I can revoke it at any time,” I shoot back, crossing my arms, chin up.
He shrugs. “Try.”
The challenge simmers between us. I want to throw something, or fuck him again, or both.
Instead, I stand, walk to the sink, and rinse the plate. I do it slowly, making a point of how steady my hands are. I can feel his gaze drilling into my spine, but I refuse to turn around.
“I’m going to shower,” I announce, setting the plate in the rack. “Then I’m leaving.”
“Okay.”
I turn, half-expecting him to block my way or make some play for dominance. Instead, he remains at the counter, pouring himself more coffee. His posture says nothing. His eyes say everything.
“Do you want a ride?” he asks.
“To the hospital?”
He nods.
I hesitate. It would be easier. Faster. More controlled. But that’s not the point.
“No,” I say. “I’ll take a cab.”
He accepts this, though I can tell it irks him. What game is he playing at? “I’ll pick you up after your shift,” he says.
I stare. “No, you won’t.”
He shrugs. “You know I will.”
He’s right. The absolute certainty in his voice is infuriating. It’s also… arousing. I clench my jaw, walk past him toward the bathroom.
At the threshold, I stop, turn back.
“Last night,” I start.
He cocks his head.
“Was that a… normal thing for you?”
He considers. “No.”
I nod, satisfied, then close the door behind me.
The shower is hot enough to scald, but it’s not enough to burn him off my skin. I wash, scrub, run my hands over the bruises blooming on my hips, the fingerprints on my thighs. They’re beautiful, in a way, proof that something happened, that I let it happen.
That for just a moment… I let go enough.
When I’m done, I notice there’s no towel.
His doing probably. Thankfully, Creed is in the hallway, waiting.
He’s dressed now… black shirt, black jeans, hair wet from his own shower.
He offers a towel, wordless. I take it, wrap it around myself, and walk to the bedroom to retrieve my clothes.
His eyes drop down my body but he doesn’t lose that cool look of control, the only sign something in him is aroused is the way his eyes narrow a fraction.
My phone is on the nightstand, plugged in. It’s fully charged. No missed calls, no new messages. I know I didn’t do that, so that begs the question… why did he do that for me? The smallest act of kindness has my head spinning.
I dress, pull my hair into a low bun, and check myself in the bathroom mirror. I look like I’ve been on a bender. The bruise on my neck is the color of a sunrise. I smile at it, then at myself.
When I return to the kitchen, Creed is by the door, keys in hand.
“You’re going to be late,” he says.
“The cab is on the way. You don’t have to follow me.” I shoulder my bag and head for the exit. He follows, steps perfectly matched to mine.
At the elevator, he presses the button, then leans against the wall. We stand in silence until the doors open.
“Are you going to tell anyone?” he asks.
“About what?”
He smiles, sharp and private. “About this.”
I pretend to think it over. “Only if it becomes interesting.”
He inclines his head, conceding the point. “Oh, my little kitten… it will.”
The elevator opens onto the lobby. I step out, but he catches my wrist, just for a second, just enough pressure to remind me.
“After your shift,” he says. Not a question.
I pull free, turn, and walk out the front door into the weak morning sun.
I don’t look back, but I know he’s watching.
I can feel it.
I think I want him to.
The hospital is a living organism, arteries of hallway, nerve clusters of break rooms, the wet heartbeat of the trauma bay pulsing endlessly in the center. I know it better than I know my own body. It’s my cathedral, my cage, my proving ground.
I stride through the automatic doors at 6:57, three minutes ahead of schedule. The shift manager nods, scanning my badge, but doesn’t say good morning. I’m not the type you greet, apparently. At least it’s efficient. No need to waste time on pleasantries.
My first surgery is a triple bypass, a seventy-year-old ex-smoker whose arteries look like the Lincoln Tunnel during rush hour.
Scrubbing in, I let my mind go blank, focusing only on the antiseptic sting and the ritual pressure of gloves against my hands.
I listen for the click of the haemostat, the hum of suction. I am at my most pure here.
The surgical suite is cold, all reflective surfaces and hard angles. A team assembles around the table: residents, nurses, anesthesiologist, all tuned to my frequency. The patient’s chest is prepped and draped, the exposed sternum a pale stage for my performance.
“Let’s begin,” I say.
My hands don’t tremble. They never have, not even the first time.
But today, there’s a tremor somewhere deeper, memory, maybe, or the aftershock of the man who made me come so hard I saw static.
I suppress it, guide the scalpel through the first incision with the ease of muscle memory.
The blood wells up, perfect and obedient, contained by the surgical field.
So beautiful. The way it runs. The way it colors everything in life.
“Retractor.” I barely have to speak. The nurse is already handing it to me.
We progress. Rib spreader. Suction. I break through the sternum, the noise a wet crunch. His heart is a fist-sized thing, blue-black and pulsing, barely alive.
He’d be better off dead, if I’m being honest and maybe I’ll still make that happen. Haven’t decided yet.