Chapter 13
Sloane
"Turn that shit off," he growls into the back of my neck, voice rough with sleep and sex and stubbornness. His hips are flush against my backside, breath hot against my skin.
"It's my twelve," I mumble, groping blindly for my phone. "If I turn it off, we both know I'm not getting up."
His arm bands tighter around my waist. "Exactly my point."
The alarm shuts off. The sudden quiet is thick and heavy, as though the room's holding its breath. Knox rolls me onto my back, bracing one forearm by my head. The other hand slides under my T-shirt, and his fingers splay over my ribs.
He's hard.
"I hate these fucking twelve-hour shifts," he mutters, kissing the corner of my mouth. "Whoever thought they were a good idea needs to be shot."
I huff a sleepy laugh. "You say that like you're not going to show up halfway through with coffee and a smug face."
His mouth curves, but his eyes stay dark, fixed on me as though I'm the only thing in the room worth eating. "Damn right I'm going to show up. You in those scrubs?" His thumb strokes just under my breast, lazy and possessive. "I have a right to inspect workplace conditions."
"Pretty sure HR would disagree," I say, but my voice is already breathy, betraying me.
He lowers his head and kisses me properly. Thoroughly. Deeply. It's the kind of kiss that scrambles time. His tongue slides against mine, hand cupping my jaw, and holds me still while he takes.
He tastes like sleep, last night's toothpaste, and something that's just him. My brain throws up an unhelpful slideshow of every place I've had him in the last week.
Counter. Shower. Couch. Against the pantry door with my skirt rucked up around my hips.
I arch into him without meaning to. My thighs fall open. He groans into my mouth, the sound low and broken, and rocks his hips once, slow and indecent.
"Knox," I whisper, fingers flexing on his shoulders. "I'm going to be late."
"We got time," he says, but his breathing's gone ragged. His hand skims down, tracing the waistband of my sleep shorts as though he's trying to talk himself out of pushing them down. "Ten minutes."
"Ten minutes is you ruining my hair and me showing up to triage looking like I got laid in the driveway. Again."
His grin is sharp and pleased. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"I have to be able to look my charge nurse in the eye, you menace."
He dips his head to my throat, teeth scraping lightly. His free hand slides under the hem of my shorts, palm hot against the back of my thigh.
"You know what I hate more than twelve-hour shifts?" he murmurs against my skin.
I swallow. "What?"
He sucks a mark into my neck, just under my ear, where only he will see it. "Twelve-hour shifts where I don't get to spend the first hour with my face between your legs."
Heat punches through me so fast I see spots. "Knox."
Half warning, half plea.
His hand squeezes my thigh once, fingers digging in, then he goes still. He breathes out a string of curses against my collarbone, as though he's actually in pain, and forces himself to pull back.
"Fuck," he says, sitting up on the edge of the bed, raking a hand through his hair. "Go. Before I do something that gets you written up."
I drag in a breath and sit up, tugging my shirt down. "You're ridiculous," I say, but my voice shakes enough that it doesn't land.
He looks over his shoulder, eyes flicking down my body and back up like he's cataloguing every inch for later. "And you're late, nurse. Move."
I shower fast, throw on my scrubs. Dark blue, clean lines, the top skimming my waist where his hands like to settle. When I come back out, he's in sweatpants and nothing else, leaning against the dresser, scrolling his phone.
His eyes snap up the second I step into the doorway. He pushes off the dresser and closes the distance, fingers hooking the waistband of my scrub pants, tugging me closer.
"You look hot," he says simply. "Hate everyone who's going to see you today."
"Jealous of my eighty-year-old regulars?"
"Jealous of your eighty-year-old regulars," he confirms, utterly serious.
I roll my eyes. "You're going to show up during my lunch and hover in the hallway like a creep, aren't you?"
"Damn right I am."
He steals another kiss, quick and hard with teeth, then lets me go, only because I shove my sneakers on and glance pointedly at my watch. At the door, I grab my bag and keys. He follows me onto the small front porch, bare feet on wood, arms folded across his chest.
"Bye, wife."
"Bye, husband," I say back softly.
For a heartbeat his face shifts, some mix of reverence and want and something larger he won't name, then he covers it with a crooked grin.
"Text me when you get there."
"Yes, sir," I mutter, heading down the steps.
I'm backing out of the driveway when I see it happen.
Knox's phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, jaw tightening. He answers with a clipped, "Yeah. Knox."
The easy, teasing warmth drains out of his tone as though someone flipped a switch.
Vice president mode. I watch his shoulders square in the rearview mirror.
Willowridge General at 6 a.m. is a different animal than the clubhouse. Less smoke, more disinfectant. Less shouting, more beeping. Different kind of chaos.
"Turner, you're on Bay Two, Four, and Trauma One," Lisa, the charge nurse, calls as I clock in. "We've got two post-ops and a fall risk coming up from the ER, plus whatever the universe decides to throw at us."
"Love that for us," I say, tucking my badge into my pocket.
Lisa smirks. "Doctor Tan already asked if you're on today. Try not to break his heart when you tell him you're married to a man with a motorcycle and a death wish."
"I'll be gentle," I promise.
She snorts. "No, you won't."
My first patient is Mrs. Jenkins, eighty-three, two days post-hip replacement and already trying to negotiate her way out of the hospital like she's brokering a hostage exchange.
"I have a cat," she informs me sternly as I check her vitals. "He's emotionally fragile."
"So are you. You move that leg wrong and your surgeon's going to hunt me down in the parking lot."
She huffs but lets me reposition her pillows, fingers curling around my wrist for balance. Her grip is surprisingly strong.
"You're a good girl," she says, studying my face. "But you look tired."
"You just threatened to escape, and you're worried about my sleep schedule?"
"Somebody has to be," she mutters, but her eyes are kind.
I move through the morning in familiar rhythms. Assessment, charting, meds. It's a controlled dance of hands and voices and machines.
I like the structure. The protocols and the way there's always a next step laid out. Even when the outcome is out of your control. The club's chaos is loud and close. The hospital lives under fluorescent lights, quieter but just as sharp.
By ten, I've stabilized a dizzy teenager who didn't eat before soccer practice, calmed an anxious middle-aged man convinced his heartburn is a heart attack, and mediated a sibling argument over who gets to stay overnight with their post-op father.
At noon, my phone buzzes in my scrub pocket.
Knox: How's my favorite nurse?
I lean against the supply room counter, thumbs flying.
Me: Busy. Your favorite nurse just stopped your favorite Mr. Jenkins from chasing Mr. Jenkins' wife down the hall with a walker.
Knox: Tell him to chill before I revoke his bacon privileges.
Me: You can't revoke an eighty-year-old man's bacon. That's a hate crime.
Knox: Fine. I'll only revoke his hash browns. How's your back?
He means: Have you eaten? Have you sat down? Are you breathing?
Me: Good. Ate. Hydrated. No one's stabbed me yet.
Knox: Proud of you. Still hate your twelve-hour shifts.
A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. I tuck the phone away just as Lisa pokes her head in.
"Turner, Trauma One in ten. Construction accident. You're on intake."
"On it," I say, and the next hours dissolve into motion.
By the time my shift clicks past eleven hours, my feet hurt, my back aches, and my brain has settled into that weird, floaty place where everything is both too loud and too far away.
I'm double-checking charting at the nurses' station when my phone buzzes.
Knox: Shift almost over?
I glance at the wall clock. Fifteen minutes until I can theoretically clock out, assuming no one codes.
Me: Don't jinx it. Why?
Knox: Candace is hurt. Malachi wants you to take a look. Can you come by?
Candace. Hurt.
I saw her yesterday. Short shorts, forced smile, that brittle edge around her eyes. I walked her into the clubhouse. Handed her to Maggie.
Me: What happened?
A longer pause.
Knox: We'll talk when I get you. You off in 15?
Me: Yeah. I'll clear it with Lisa.
Knox: I'm on my way.
Lisa takes one look at my face and nods without asking.
"Go. Text me if you get pulled into something major. I'll adjust assignments."
I strip off my gloves, wash my hands until the skin feels too tight, and clock out. I grab my work bag from my locker; stethoscope, penlight, the basics I carry every shift. By the time I push through the sliding doors into evening air, Knox is already there.
Leaning against his bike near the curb, cut on, boots planted, helmet dangling from two fingers. In worn jeans and a faded black T-shirt, tattoos a collage of ink and intent down his forearms. The kind of trouble I'd walk back into with both eyes open.
He doesn't do the usual slow sweep of my scrubs. He straightens as I approach, eyes a shade darker than usual. His attention scans the lot once before settling on me.
"Prospect's moving your car," he says. "Get on." Clipped. Efficient. Vice president mode. His gaze softens a fraction. He hands me the helmet. "We'll talk on the way," he says. "You're not driving."
"Bossy," I mutter.
"Correct." He presses a quick, hard kiss to the corner of my mouth. I swing a leg over and settle in behind him, hands finding his waist on instinct.