6. Chapter Five #2
I lose myself in the work for a while, every move a locked-in, practiced dance.
But there are cracks in my focus. In the corner of my mind, I see Creed: the way his hands gripped my waist, the bruises blooming under his fingers, the flash of teeth at my throat.
The memory is as vivid as the blood on my gloves, and for a second I misjudge the tension on the purse-string suture.
“Dr. Whitmore?” It’s the junior resident, eyes wide above the mask.
“I’m fine,” I snap. “Clamp.”
I take a breath, steady my pulse, then finish the graft with a flourish, tying off the vessel in a clean, square knot. The heart sputters, then resumes its rhythm, stronger now. I watch it beat, thinking of other, less surgical kinds of pressure.
“Looks good,” the attending murmurs, more for his own benefit than mine. He knows better than to comment directly.
I close, layer by layer, rebuilding the chest wall with the precision that makes me the best. As the final staples go in, I scan the room. The junior is still watching me, maybe wondering if I’ll falter again.
I don’t. I finish, peel off my gloves, and nod toward the next case.
The OR is my domain, and I rule it absolutely.
But even gods get distracted.
In the surgeons’ lounge, I peel off my mask and scrub cap, running a hand through the sweat-soaked mess of hair. I check my phone, three messages from admin, one from my sister, none from Creed.
I should be relieved.
Yet… I’m not.
I sit, stretch my legs out, and let the adrenaline bleed off. The lounge is empty, just the quiet hiss of the coffee machine and the distant rattle of gurneys. I take a moment to replay the day, looking for any misstep, any lapse that might betray my obsession.
Nothing. I’m still perfect.
Except for the memory of him, carved into my skin, my muscles, the softest tissue of my brain.
The junior resident pokes his head in. “Dr. Whitmore? They’re ready in pre-op.”
“Be right there,” I say, not bothering to look up.
He hesitates, then steps inside. “If you don’t mind me asking, are you okay? You seemed… off, during the bypass.”
I glare, but he’s persistent. I like that. Reminds me of a puppy who refuses to take the hint.
“Just tired,” I say. “Try sleeping four hours a night and see how steady your hands are.”
He nods, chastened but unconvinced. “You’re still the best surgeon I’ve ever seen.”
I can’t tell if he’s flirting or terrified. Maybe both.
“Go prep the patient,” I order. He goes.
I lean back, close my eyes. For a second, I imagine Creed’s hands at my throat again, the pressure exquisite, the loss of control total. The thought makes me shiver, but I squash it, rising to my feet and rolling my shoulders until the tension pops free.
I walk to pre-op, mask in place, persona fully restored.
But inside, the animal is awake. And it’s hungry.
The workday ends as it always does: last rounds, perfunctory charting, a final barked order to the night staff to keep the cath lab ready for emergencies. I sign out, hands scrubbed raw, and exit through the double doors into the bright violence of late afternoon.
He’s there, exactly as promised, idling in the pickup zone in a matte-black Mercedes, windows tinted just this side of illegal.
How many cars does he have? It makes me wonder what he does for a moment, but I cut that line of thought.
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because he’s not going to be around long.
He sits behind the wheel, back straight, arms loose at ten and two. The look he gives me is so direct it stops my breath mid-exhale. For a split second, I almost go to him, almost let him win, but the memory of his certainty at breakfast stings enough to fuel my resolve.
I keep walking. My car is still in the underground.
At first, I think he’ll do something, roll down the window, say my name, demand an explanation. But Creed just watches, face a mask of patient calculation. The only sign of tension is the way his fingers grip the wheel, tendons standing out like steel cables under the skin.
Wiggling my fingers at him, I walk past him. My sensible shoes slap against the curb, a small, satisfying act of defiance. I can feel his gaze on my back the entire way to the underground, and though every molecule in my body wants to look over my shoulder, I don’t give him the satisfaction.
Pulling out, he’s idled at the exit. For the briefest moment, our eyes meet through the glass.
His are unreadable, dark and fathomless, but something flickers there.
Anger, maybe. Or hunger. Or something worse.
A thrill works it’s way over my body and for a split second, I wonder if he’s going to lose it and get out. But he doesn’t.
Winking at him, I press the gas and my car lurches forward. My heart hammers, but I make my breath slow, force every beat into submission.
By the time I reach my building, the adrenaline has receded, replaced by a dull ache in my chest. I badge in, take the elevator, and unlock my door with hands steadier than I feel.
Inside, the condo is as I left it I drop my bag, kick off my shoes, and walk directly to the shower, stripping as I go.
Is he watching me? Probably. He’s always watching.
The water is blistering hot, sluicing away the day’s sweat, blood, and everything else.
I stand there until my skin burns, until the only thing left is the animal inside me, curled and waiting.
After, I dress in a fresh shirt, throw on shorts, and head to the kitchen. I make a salad, every tomato halved, every leaf of arugula rinsed and spun dry. I pour a glass of wine, cheap but cold, and sit at the counter.
The silence is heavier than before. I realize, with a small, ugly shock, that I miss the sound of his voice, miss the tension, the fight, the sense that I am alive because someone wants to claim me so fucking badly he’ll break every rule in the book to do it.
I eat, chewing each bite without actually tasting anything. Across the counter, the other stool is empty, but I can feel his shadow occupying it, arms crossed, eyes daring me to look away.
I won’t.
I finish the wine, rinse the glass, and set it on the drying rack.
Tomorrow is another day. Another battle.
I’ll win. I have to.
But tonight, I let the ache in my chest linger.
Because I know, no matter how hard I fight, how far I run, I’ll never really escape him.
And, god help me, I don’t even want to.