"That's a completely inappropriate—"
"Your pupils are dilated. Pulse visible at your throat—probably 100 BPM. Slight tremor in your hands that has nothing to do with fatigue."
"Are you diagnosing my arousal?"
"I'm observing. You taught me that. Medical observation."
My phone explodes with Miguel's ringtone.
Miguel:Where are you? Need to talk.
"I have to go," I say.
"No, you don't."
"Miguel needs—"
"Miguel doesn't know what you need."
"And you do?"
He steps closer, close enough that I can smell that cedar cologne mixing with leather and danger. "I know you need to be touched by hands that don't heal. Kissed by someone who matches your damage. Claimed by—"
"I'm nobody's to claim."
"You're already mine. You just haven't admitted it yet."
My phone rings again. Miguel. Again.
"Answer it," Zane says. "Tell him you're working."
I do, because not answering would be worse. "Hey."
"Where are you?"
"Working. Mobile unit. Just finished with a patient."
"Viper?"
How does he—? Of course. Phoenix is smaller than it seems when you're in the MC world.
"I treat everyone, Miguel."
"I know. That's the problem. I'm ten minutes out. We need to talk about your safety."
He hangs up. I stare at Zane.
"You have to go. Now. Miguel's coming."
"Let him."
"He'll kill you."
"He'll try."
"This isn't a game—"
He kisses me. Quick, claiming, tasting like terrible coffee and worse decisions. Then he's gone, out the back of the van and on his bike before I can process what just happened.
