I looked at the ceiling for half a second and tried to remember I had a fiancée.
Georgia.
Georgia with the ring.
Georgia with the soft mouth and warm hands. Georgia who wanted me alive. Georgia who had done nothing wrong except love a man who had mistaken gratitude for surrender.
The door opened.
Dr. Bennett walked in.
I hated him immediately.
Not rationally.
Not because he had done anything wrong.
Because he looked at Destiny like she was a woman before he looked at her like a nurse.
And I noticed.
I noticed the way his face changed. The little lift of interest. The easy smile. The confidence of a man who had probably never had to wonder whether he belonged in a room. Sandy hair. Rolled sleeves. Clean jaw. Doctor posture. The kind of man women’s families approved of before he finished saying hello.
The kind of man who made sense next to a surgical nurse with diamonds in her ears and a future bright enough to hurt.
My hand tightened in the sheet.
The IV tape pulled at my skin.
“Doctor,” Destiny said.
Her voice stayed neutral, but I caught the shift in her shoulders.
She knew.
She knew I was watching.
Good.
No.
Not good.
Damn it.
Bennett checked the chart, then smiled at her. “Rourke. There you are.”
There you are.
Like he had been looking.
Like he had a right to enjoy finding her.
A low heat moved through me, dark and mean.
I had no claim.
Georgia’s ring existed.
