The nurse points to a sterile-looking examination table on the far side of the room. “You can change into the patient gown there, sweetie,” she says, her voice softening. Then she shuts the door, and the click of the lock is deafening.
But I don’t move right away. I stay put, I hold my breath, until I hear the soft knock on the wall. I jump at the noise and quickly knock back, before turning to the camera and waving.
Then I take a moment to settle myself in the sterile room.
My gaze drifts around the room. It smells sterile and faintly chemical. Bright lights hum overhead, and the exam table is covered in crinkly white paper. There’s a metal counter along one wall, cabinets above it, a sink, and a small stack of folded patient gowns.
It’s cold and impersonal, but knowing Pace is just on the other side of the wall helps.
Moving slowly, I peel my shirt off first. Then my shorts.
The air against my exposed skin makes me shiver. Everything feels sensitive, raw, and aware. I glance toward the metal tray near the sink and spot a roll of paper towels.
My gaze lingers on them.
I can feel Pace’s tacky, cooling cum still clinging to me. Along my thighs. Between them, and at the curve of my backside. It makes me self-conscious.
I take a step toward the counter before I stop myself.
Pace is probably watching the monitor right now.
The thought makes my stomach flip.
Would he think I’m rejecting him if I cleaned it off? Would he think I was trying to erase him? I don’t know how all of this works yet, and the last thing I want to do is upset my mate.
The bond between us hums faintly in the background, steady and warm. Protective. Possessive.
I swallow and step back from the paper towels.
Instead, I grab the thin gown and pull it over my head, tying it loosely at the back. The fabric hangs awkwardly, barely covering me. Then I climb onto the exam table and sit there, hands folded in my lap, trying not to think about how exposed I feel.
There’s a soft knock at the door.
A woman steps inside first, followed by the nurse from before. The doctor looks to be in her mid-forties, maybe early fifties. Shoulder-length brown hair threaded with silver. She has on dark-rimmed glasses and calm eyes. There’s something immediately steady about her.
Kind.
She gives me a small smile as she approaches, with a clipboard tucked under her arm. “Hello, Jude. I’m Dr. Whitaker.” Her voice is warm.
The nurse moves to the counter, pulling up something on her own tablet.
Dr. Whitaker scans the chart for a moment. “All right,” she says. “Let’s just go over a few things regarding your heat-induced mating.”
My cheeks go hot as I nod.
“Were you given any kind of heat accelerator prior to mating?” she asks calmly. “Or do you suspect you were?”
“No,” I say quickly. “No, I wasn’t.”
The nurse taps something onto her screen.
Dr. Whitaker nods. “Were you traded or coerced into mating Mr. Greene?”
“No.” My answer comes out faster than I mean it to. “No,” I repeat, softer this time.
Another note on the tablet.
“Who was your previous registered owner?” she asks gently.
