We glared at each other for bit before he sighed heavily. “My brain is wired differently. I obsess over specific things, and when I become intrigued by someone, which is rare, I want to know every detail about them, and you awakened a need inside me the first time I saw you. Like other women, I figured a quick fuck, and I’d be done with you but that wasn’t the case.”
My stomach flipped and I hated how much the declaration thrilled me. Wordlessly, I reached for the door. Remo’s his hand closed around my wrist, firm and unyielding. His eyes locked with mine. Cold, possessive, a storm barely restricted.
“Listen very carefully,” he said, voice edged with steel. “You will go inside. You will work. You will breathe the same air you breathed yesterday.” He leaned in closer. “But you will not forget me.” My throat tightened. “And tonight, when the clock hits seven I will come for you,” he continued with the arrogance of a man who had never heard the word no.
My pulse skittered. “What if I’m not here?”
His smile was terrifyingly slow. “Like I said earlier, I’ll hunt you.” His thumb brushed my pulse point, one slow stroke that forced a tremor down my spine. “Go before I change my mind and keep you.”
I opened the door on shaky legs and stepped out. He didn’t drive off, the purr of the exhaust following me to the doors. There, I paused, staring at the reflection of the car in the glass, willing myself not to turn around. Regardless, I felt the heat of his gaze burning into my back.
“Remember my words,” he called out, his promise non-negotiable.
I knew then that even if I hid, Remo would find me, not today, not tomorrow but eventually. The hours I’d spent in his arms were a testimony to his lovemaking, his words though, were written on my soul. A permanent mark. Only one word came to mind.
Indelible.
forty-five
. . .
Ishika– 32 years old
The sliding doors opened with their familiar mechanical sigh, releasing a faint gust of sterile air and disinfectant that usually settled my nerves the moment I stepped inside. The bright lights, the sharp scent of antiseptic, the clipped voices of nurses discussing vitals or labs, these were the sounds and smells of control, of order, of the world in which I knew exactly who I was.
Except today, none of it touched me.
Instead, everything felt distant, like the hospital existed on a layer above my skin while I drifted underneath it, suspended in the lingering fervour of Remo’s touch, his dirty mouth, his sexual prowess, his impossible presence. The clean air couldn’t wash away his scent of smoke and bodywash and the darker, intoxicating undercurrent of him. Even the cool tile under my shoes failed to ground me; it only reminded me of how the cold shower wall felt pressed against my stomach, his body pinning mine while steam curled around us.
I walked through the corridor, my steps light, uncertain. Several nurses greeted me with their usual brisk warmth, butall I could manage in return, was a tight nod and a forced smile. Inside the doctors lounge, I changed into a pair of scrubs, grabbed my white coat, and shrugged into it, praying that the crisp white fabric would magically restore the boundaries I’d lost the moment Remo touched me, transform me back into Dr. Ishika Sharma. Calm, capable and steady.
But the coat felt heavy, an almost protective armour as if it sensed how fragile my grip on myself truly was right now. Stepping into Trauma one, I grabbed the chart from the rack, forcing myself to greet the fifty-something patient with a smile.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Sharma, how may I help you today?”
But my mind was a battlefield, flashes of Remo pinning me down, fucking me hard, the low cadence in his voice when he told me not to run, the terrifying, intoxicating certainty in his gaze when he said he wasn’t done with me. With every step I took, the hallway felt narrower. With every chart I read, the words disintegrated faster.
By ten, I fumbled a blood draw, something I hadn’t done since my first year. My hands trembled visibly, and the nurse beside me glanced up with startled concern.
“Doctor, are you alright? You look flushed.”
Flushed.
What a simple word for what had been burning under my skin since dawn. “I’m fine,” I rasped, the lie soaked in humiliation.
By eleven, I almost signed the wrong medication order and caught it only when the letters blurred and rearranged themselves into nonsensical patterns.
At noon, I walked into a supply room and forgot entirely what I went in for, staring blankly at shelves until a nurse asked what I needed and I had no answer.
Whispers followed me down the corridor, soft, puzzled, worried. I ignored them or at least I tried to. How could I explainthat my unravelling had nothing to do with fatigue or illness? That it was because Remo’s filthy mouth had been on my throat less than twelve hours ago? Because his hands had held me with a possessiveness that made my pulse accelerate, even now? Because every shift of my body brought with it a reminder of the hot, hungry way he’d whispered:
“Take me deeper, little fox. Let that tight pussy squeeze my cock.”
I shut my eyes for half a breath, shunting the memory aside but pushing only brought it back sharper.
By two, I slipped into the restroom and braced my hands against the sink, bowing my head until my hair curtained my face, hiding my reflection. Because the mirror exposed someone who looked like me but with sparkling eyes, raw lips, and undisguised tension running through her like a fault line ready to split open.
“Wake up, girl,” I scolded, splashing my face with cold water. It seemed to do the trick until I stepped outside and a voice called out behind me.
