She pulls back, her eyes searching mine, and what I see there makes my blood run cold. It’s not love. It’s not affection. It’s fear. Pure, unadulterated fear.
Something is really wrong.
My hand drops from her face, my fingers curling into a fist at my side. I want to ask her what it is. I want to demand she tell me what’s going on. But the words are stuck in my throat, choked by the sudden, overwhelming sense of foreboding that washes over me.
She turns and disappears into the exam room. The door clicks shut behind her, leaving me alone in the hallway with the ghost of her kiss on my lips and a feeling of dread that threatens to swallow me whole.
Millie
The exam room is small and sterile. I sit on the edge of the paper-covered table, my legs dangling, my hands clasped so tightly in my lap that my knuckles are white. The door clicks open, and a woman in a white coat walks in. She’s older, maybe late fifties, with kind eyes and a no-nonsense haircut.
“Millie Harper?” she asks, glancing at the chart in her hands. “I’m Dr. Evans. Let’s get you checked out.”
She’s efficient, her movements precise as she wraps the blood pressure cuff around my arm, the tight squeeze a welcome distraction. The thermometer beeps under my tongue. She shines a light in my eyes, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“Everything looks normal,” she says, making a note on the chart. “Vitals are good. Pupils are reactive. No signs of a serious concussion.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “That’s good.”
“But you don’t look like a woman who’s feeling ‘good,’” she says, her gaze sharp and perceptive. “What’s on your mind?”
I hesitate, my heart pounding against my ribs. “I know this is going to sound crazy, but... could I be going into heat?”
Dr. Evans doesn’t even bat an eye. “It’s not crazy at all. Stress can trigger latent heat symptoms, especially if you’ve been on suppressants for a long time. What have you been taking?”
“Standard suppressants. The daily kind.”
“And have you been under a lot of stress lately?”
I let out a humorless laugh. “You could say that. A fire, a car accident, my whole life turned upside down...”
“That would do it,” she says, nodding. “The heat specialist is out of town, but we can definitely get you something to alleviate the symptoms. Have you been taking your suppressants regularly?”
“I need to re-up my prescription,” I admit. “I’m almost out.”
“The pharmacy has been running low, but I can send the prescription over. You should be able to get a few days’ supply at least.”
“Thank you,” I say, a wave of relief washing over me.
“As for your test results,” she continues, “the lab is backed up, but I’ll put a rush on them. You should hear something by tomorrow afternoon.”
I nod, my mind already racing ahead. I need to get to the pharmacy. I need to get those pills.
The pharmacy is a small, cramped space. The pharmacist, a young man with a perpetually tired expression, types my prescription into his computer.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “We’re completely out of your brand of suppressants. We’re expecting a delivery in a day or two, but that’s the best I can do.”
My stomach drops. “A day or two?”
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “The fire destroyed a lot of our inventory, and the roads have been a mess for deliveries.”
I thank him, my voice tight, and walk out of the pharmacy, my mind a whirlwind of panic. I have one pill left. One. And then what? I push the thought aside, forcing myself to focus on theimmediate. I have one pill. That’s enough for now. I’ll figure out the rest later.
Liam is waiting for me by the entrance, his hands shoved into his pockets, his expression a mixture of concern and frustration. He’s got a small, white brace on his right wrist.
“What’s that?” I ask, my gaze falling on the brace.
“Just a little carpal tunnel,” he says, waving it off. “Nothing serious. Are you okay? What did the doctor say?”
