-Sloane Pierce:
I had already knocked. The sound of my knuckles against the heavy wood still lingered in my ears when I heard her voice on the other side.
"Come in."
Roxy Delgado.
I pulled in a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and pushed the door open.
The room wasn’t a room. It was a palace. The ceiling stretched impossibly high, adorned with ornate molding and a chandelier that glittered with fractured light. A wall of windows spilled sunshine over polished hardwood floors, illuminating a sitting area with velvet chairs and gilded tables. And then there was the bed—a massive four-poster, dressed in silk sheets and enough pillows to drown in.
And in the middle of all of that, she lounged.
Roxy sat propped against pillows, a vision of contradictions: casted leg stretched out before her, head wrapped with a thin bandage, bruises blooming over her skin like dark blossoms... yet she looked nothing like a patient. She looked like a queen on her throne.
Her black hair, now washed and styled, shimmered with streaks of red I hadn’t noticed before—blood had hidden them during surgery. But now? Now the red glowed, deliberate, defiant, like fire threading through midnight. And the tattoos—, the tattoos. Roses in every shade of red inked across her arms, curling along her ribs, peeking from under the hem of her silk pajama shorts. Roses everywhere. Red roses. She was obsessed.
And the clothes... she was dressed in silk, of course. A deep crimson pajama set—shorts and a loose button-down that clung to her just enough to make me aware of every line of her body. The color matched the streaks in her hair, matched the roses carved into her skin, matched the smirk curling her lips.
She looked me up and down, slow and shameless, before letting her gaze settle on my face. And then she smiled—no, not a smile. A smirk. Confident, unhinged, like she already owned me.
"Well," she drawled, her voice husky and smooth. "Look who finally showed up. My angel."
I gripped my work bag tighter, my white coat swishing around my knees as I stepped into the room. I could already feel my pulse in my throat.
"Good morning, Ms. Delgado," I said, tone clipped, professional. My voice was steadier than I felt. "How are you feeling?"
She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes dragged down my body—coat, blouse, skirt, stockings, shoes—and back up again, slow enough to make my skin burn.
Then she smirked wider. "I’m feeling so much better," she said softly, "now that you’re standing in my bedroom."
I exhaled sharply, holding my professionalism like armor. I had expected this. I had rehearsed for it. Still, hearing it, seeing her watching me like I was prey, made my chest tighten.
"I need to check your head wound," I said briskly, setting my bag down on the chair near the window. "And make sure your other injuries are healing properly."
"Yes," she said, almost instantly. "You should definitely check my head... And my whole body while you are at it." Then she smirked. My heart stuttered, but I didn’t let it show. I snapped on a pair of gloves and stepped closer.
Every footfall toward her felt heavier than the last. My heart thudded against my ribs, and I reminded myself—again—that I had treated patients in worse conditions, in tenser situations. Yet somehow, walking toward this woman in silk pajamas made me feel less in control than I had ever been.
I reached her bedside, carefully brushing her hair back from her face to inspect the bandaged wound at her temple. Her hair was soft, freshly washed, the faint scent of expensive shampoo curling into my senses. My fingers lingered too close to her skin, and I hated the way I noticed it.
"You’re healing well," I murmured, keeping my tone detached. "No signs of infection. The bandage should stay another few days before I replace it with lighter coverage."
Roxy tilted her head ever so slightly, her smirk never wavering. "You’re very gentle with me, Doctor Pierce. Do you touch all your patients like this, or just me?"
I froze for half a second. My jaw tightened. Then I forced myself to keep moving, rewrapping the bandage with calm precision. "I treat all my patients with the same care."
She laughed softly, a low, husky sound that sent shivers down my spine. "That’s a lie," she whispered. "You’re nervous. I can see it in your hands. You don’t get nervous with everyone, do you? Just me."
My throat dried. Damn her. Damn her for being right.
"I’m your doctor," I said firmly. "This is about your recovery. Nothing more."
Her smirk softened into something almost playful, almost tender. "Oh, but I want it to be more."
The words hung in the air like smoke. I swallowed hard, finished my work quickly, and stepped back. "Your head looks fine. Your leg will need time. Four weeks, minimum, before we can even consider physical therapy."
She leaned back against her pillows, tilting her head with mock innocence. "So what’s your job until then, Doctor? If you can’t twist me around and make me do little exercises?"
I folded my arms, trying not to bite at her bait. "My job is to monitor your wounds. Keep them clean. Check for infection. Ensure your healing stays on track."
Roxy’s smirk deepened. "No, no, no. That’s boring. I have nurses and maids for that." She leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice as though confessing a secret. "You? You’re going to take care of me. That’s your therapy for this whole month. Until my leg heals, you’ll be mine."
I stiffened. "That’s not physical therapy, Ms. Delgado."
"It is now," she countered. "So let’s get to know each other."
Before I could object, she started firing questions at me. At first they were light, almost harmless. What was my favorite color? Did I cook or always eat out? Coffee or tea? She laughed when I answered tea, rolling her eyes.
"Of course you’re a tea person," she teased. "So prim and proper."
I kept my tone professional, short. But the questions didn’t stop. They grew deeper, sharper, almost like needles pricking through the shield I’d put up. She asked if I had siblings. If I’d ever been in love. If my job ever made me feel lonely.
I shifted, uncomfortable. "These aren’t relevant questions."
"They’re relevant to me," she said simply. "I want to know who you are when you’re not hiding behind your white coat."
I tried to ignore the way my pulse skipped. I needed distance, but she pulled and pulled. And then her fingers brushed the edge of one of her tattoos—a rose blooming across her forearm—and she tilted her head at me.
"You keep staring," she said slyly. "Do you like them?"
"I wasn’t staring," I said too quickly.
Her grin widened. "Liar. Do you like them?"
I hesitated, then sighed. "They suit you."
Her eyes lit up, pleased. "All roses. Red. The color of wine, the color of blood, the color of love. My favorite color in the world. Do you know why?"
I shook my head, but she didn’t wait for an answer.
"Because it’s the only color that always means passion. Doesn’t matter if it’s painted on your lips, flowing out of a wound, or sitting in a glass. It always means the same thing—intensity. Desire. Fire."
Her gaze locked on mine, unflinching. My chest tightened.
I tried to pull the focus back to something neutral, something safe. "Do you have any questions about your recovery? Pain, medication, wound care—"
"Yes," she cut me off, a little too quickly. "Why does pain sometimes spread up my leg? It aches in places the bone isn’t even broken."
Finally—something clinical. Something I could actually talk about without feeling like the ground was shifting under me. Relief loosened my chest.
"That’s normal," I said, and then I launched into explanation, letting myself fall into the comfort of knowledge. "When a bone breaks, it causes inflammatory responses in the surrounding tissue. Nerves in the area become hypersensitive. You might experience referred pain—basically, the nerves send signals beyond the exact injury site, so you feel pain in your thigh, hip, even your lower back. Additionally, the immobilization of the leg in the cast can cause muscular atrophy and stiffness, which contributes to the sensation of widespread ache. Circulation is also reduced, so you might experience swelling and throbbing. That’s why elevating your leg and light, safe movements of the toes are important to keep blood flow optimal and reduce those referred sensations."
I realized I was rambling. My words had picked up speed, spilling in clinical cadence. I paused, pressing my lips together.
When I looked back at her, she wasn’t smirking. She was staring at me with something softer, something that made my skin prickle. Her eyes were wide, focused on me like I was the only thing in the world.
Then she snorted and leaned back against her pillows, grinning. "Talk nerdy to me more, Doctor." Heat rushed to my cheeks before I could stop it. And just like that, she was smirking again, satisfied, like she had won.