“Miranda,” the doctor calls out as he reaches the break room door.
I stop walking.
Miranda appears in the doorway, and her whole face changes. Softens. She smiles at him like he’s not covered in another woman’s scent.
“Dr. Hudson. I was just about to check on the patient in room four.”
“I already handled it.” He touches her arm, familiar and possessive. “You should take a break. You look exhausted.”
“I’m fine. My shift is almost over.”
“You’re always fine.” His thumb strokes her forearm. “How about I pick you up on Saturday? We can grab a movie before our reservation.”
Saturday. The French restaurant on Halim Street.
She wasn’t lying.
And she’s an idiot.
The image of her sitting across from him, smiling while he touches her, burns through my mind. That possessiveness is back, stronger now, clawing at my control.
I turn away, jaw clenched. This is none of my business. She can date whoever she wants. If she wants to go out with some horny bastard who can’t even wait until his shift ends to screw around, that’s her problem.
Not mine.
I make it to my car and sit there, engine running, telling myself to drive away.
I should warn her. Maybe she doesn’t know.
Every possessive instinct I have rebels at the idea of that man’s hands on her. At the idea of Miranda sitting across from him at some restaurant, smiling and laughing, letting him touch her arm, lean close, whisper things that make her blush. While he probably has another woman’s number already saved in his phone. While he reeks of someone else’s perfume.
The thought makes me want to shift and hunt.
Thirty minutes pass. Then forty. I don’t move.
This is stupid. I should go home. Check on Ethan. Get some sleep.
Then I see her.
Miranda walks out of the ER entrance, no longer in scrubs but wearing dark slacks and a cream blouse that makes her skin glow under the parking lot lights. She’s parked far from where I am, in a section that’s poorly lit. I watch her make her way across the lot, her steps slow and weary.
I should go home. Check on Ethan. Get some sleep.
But I don’t move.
Then I see them.
Three men emerge from between parked cars. They’re holding baseball bats and crowbars in their hands and heading straight for her.
Miranda notices them too. I see the exact moment she does. Her body language changes instantly. Her grip tightens on her bag, and her expression morphs into one of fear. Her steps quicken.
Then she runs.
My heart slams against my ribs.
The men run after her.
“Shit.” I’m out of my car, moving fast.
