His eyes were fixed on Bennett with such cold, controlled fury that for half a second I forgot he was the one in the hospital bed.
No defense team lurking around.
No Edge in the doorway.
No Tarak ready to break fingers.
No Regan with that look that could make grown men apologize for thoughts they had not finished having.
Just Dylan.
Wounded, engaged, half-drugged, and looking at another man like the world had briefly forgotten who I belonged to.
Except I did not belong to him.
That was the problem.
I turned back to Bennett and gave him the only smile I could manage. “You can’t ask me out in front of my favorite patient, Doc.”
Bennett blinked.
Then laughed.
Dylan did not.
“Favorite?” Dylan asked.
His voice was low.
I kept my eyes on the chart. “Clinically speaking.”
“Clinically,” he repeated.
“Is that still a no?” Bennett asked, because apparently medical school did not teach survival instincts.
Dylan’s hand curled against the sheet.
I saw it.
So did he, probably.
His knuckles went white, then pain flashed across his face before he could hide it.
My nurse instincts overrode everything.
“Do not tense your abdomen,” I snapped.
His eyes came back to me.
“Then tell him to stop flirting.”
The room went silent.
Bennett’s brows lifted.
My heart kicked hard against my ribs.
Dylan’s face gave nothing away except the fact that he had said exactly what he meant and regretted none of it.
