-Roxy Delgado:
I’d been in this damn house for two weeks now, and I was already bored out of my mind. Yeah, sure, I had nurses, maids, hairdressers even a chef who made sure I didn’t so much as lift a finger, but none of it made me feel alive. Not the ridiculous silk pajamas hugging my skin, not the diamond chandelier above my bed, not the latest tech sitting untouched in the corner of the room.
What made me feel alive was her.
Dr. Sloane Pierce.
The woman who thought she could say no to me, who looked at me like I was some kind of storm she didn’t want to get swept into. I saw it in her eyes the first day she walked in with that stiff white coat buttoned up to her throat, clutching her little notebook like a shield. She wanted to run, but she didn’t. And that told me everything I needed to know about her.
This morning, the maids fussed around me like usual, fixing my hair, touching up the red streaks that I demanded never fade. They dressed me in another silk set—shorts and a button-down—and I made them leave me alone. I wanted the room to smell like me, not them. I wanted Sloane to walk in and find me waiting.
When she finally came, it was like my entire body remembered how to burn. She tried not to look impressed at the mansion, at the guards, at the wealth dripping from every corner, but I could see her jaw twitching like she was swallowing her words. She was polite when my brothers led her up, professional when she checked my wounds, and downright ice cold when I flirted. She ignored every one of my attempts of flirting with her But her ears gave her away—they flushed pink every time.
And today, I wasn’t going to let her escape my game.
"Sit," I told her, patting the armchair across from my bed as the maids wheeled in lunch. The smell of roasted chicken, garlic, and lemon filled the air. She hesitated—she always hesitated, like every word I said was a trap—and then sat down, smoothing her white coat over her knees.
"I don’t have to sit with you while you eat," she said, her voice tight, the way people sounded when they didn’t want to admit they were nervous.
I smirked. "Oh, but you do. You’re my doctor. Isn’t it, like, your job to make sure I don’t choke to death or something?"
"That’s not exactly how it works," she muttered, but I caught the tiny twitch of her lips, like she was holding back a laugh.
I leaned forward, fork in hand, and speared a piece of chicken. "Here," I said, holding it out across the space between us. "Taste."
Her eyes widened. "I don’t w—"
"Doctor," I interrupted, soft but sharp, the way my family did when they expected obedience. "Don’t make me ask twice."
For a second, I thought she might walk out. I really did. But then she sighed, leaned in, and took the bite straight from the fork. The way her lips brushed against the metal made my stomach clench in ways my broken leg never could.
"Well?" I asked.
"It’s... good," she admitted, sitting back quickly like she was afraid of what she’d just done.
"See?" I said with a grin. "We can share a meal. That wasn’t so hard, was it?"
Her glare could’ve frozen hell over, but I only laughed, taking another bite for myself.
We went on like that for a while—me eating slowly, deliberately, offering her little tastes here and there, watching the way she squirmed in her chair but always gave in. She wanted to act like she was in control, but in this house, in this room, we both knew who held the reins.
By the time the plates were cleared, I could feel the tension between us like static in the air. She stood, brushing imaginary crumbs from her coat.
"Since you can’t do physical therapy until your leg heals," she said briskly, "my main task is not to share meals with you, it’s providing wound care. Changing bandages, monitoring for infection, helping you with basic mobility—"
"In other words," I cut in, "you’re here to take care of me."
Her lips pressed into a line. "That’s... one way to put it."
"It’s the only way to put it," I said, smirking as I leaned back against my pillows. "You’re mine, Doctor. My personal angel in white."
"I’m not yours," she snapped, but the way her voice cracked at the end made me grin wider.
I let the silence stretch, let her stew in it, before I pushed further. "So, tell me—do you always dress like you’re trying to hide every inch of yourself, or is that just for me?"
Her eyes narrowed. "This is professional attire."
"Professional, sure. But boring," I teased, running my gaze over her coat, her neatly pinned hair. "You’ve got curves under there, I know you do, I see the outline of your waist when bend over and the width of your hips. Don’t pretend you don’t."
"Ms. Delgado—"
"Roxanne or Roxy," I interrupted. "Say it. Call me Roxy."
She clenched her jaw. "Roxy."
God, hearing my name on her lips was better than morphine.
"You should relax," I said. "I’m not gonna bite." I paused, then grinned. "Unless you ask nicely."
Her cheeks flushed so red I almost cackled. She turned away, busying herself with the tray of medical supplies, keep a poker face.
I let her, for a minute. Then I leaned forward again. "You know what I’ve realized, Doctor? You’re scared of me. And I love it."
"I’m not scared of you," she said quickly, too quickly.
"Liar."
Her hands stilled on the gauze. She didn’t answer.
And that was my victory.
The silence after that lingered, heavy and sweet, like the smell of roasted garlic still hanging in the air. Sloane sat rigid in the armchair across from my bed, her white coat pulled tight around her breast, showing of bust that she’s trying to hide with super loose clothes like armor, her hair pinned neatly, not a strand out of place. I want to see her hair down, Once just once.
She was every inch the doctor—serious, distant, professional. And yet, when she thought I wasn’t looking, her eyes strayed. To my legs, to my tattoos, to the red strands of my hair, to the red silk clinging to my skin.
She wanted to look.
I wanted her to drown in it.
I leaned back against my pillows, letting the silk ride up my thighs just a little, just enough to make her swallow hard. "So," I drawled, dragging my fork through the sauce on my plate, "tell me something, Doctor. What’s my physical therapy supposed to look like while I’m stuck with this cast? Because last I checked, you can’t exactly make me run laps around the pool."
Her voice came clipped, brisk. "Until your leg heals, mobility is limited. I’ll be monitoring your wounds, preventing infection, making sure you don’t lose too much muscle mass. For the next few weeks, it’s mostly rest and care."
"In other words," I said, smirking, "you’re here to take care of me by touching me all over. Day in, day out."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "That’s not—"
"It’s exactly what you just said," I cut her off. "Don’t argue with me, Doctor. You’ll lose."
She glared, the kind of glare that should’ve frozen me, but instead it lit me up inside. God, she was gorgeous when she was angry.
"Fine," she said, her tone brittle as glass. "If that makes you feel better, then yes. I’m here to... take care of you, but I’m only touching you to help you move your muscles not in the way you think."
I grinned slow, letting the silence stretch, watching her shift in her chair. "Oh, it makes me feel more than better. It makes me feel... necessary. And you have no idea, Doctor, how necessary you are to me."
Her cheeks flushed pink. She dropped her gaze to the medical bag at her feet.
I pounced. "What’s wrong? Not used to women saying they need you?"
Her head snapped up, eyes flashing. "You’re my patient."
"And you’re my doctor," I said easily. "Looks like we’re stuck with each other. Might as well make it fun."
She muttered something under her breath—probably a prayer for patience—and pulled out fresh gauze, gloves, antiseptic wipes. Her armor. My playground.
When she came over to change the bandage on my arm, her hands hovered for a fraction of a second before touching me. I didn’t miss it. She brushed against my skin, gentle, clinical, but I leaned into it anyway, sighing like it was something more.
Her jaw tightened. "Hold still."
"I am still," I whispered, grinning. "You’re the one shaking."
Her hands froze, then pressed a little too firmly against the wound. I hissed but laughed through it. "Careful, Doctor. If you hurt me, you’ll have to kiss it better."
Her entire face went red while keeping it emotionaless. She muttered something about unprofessional behavior and tried to retreat, but I wasn’t done.
"Help me up," I demanded.
Her eyes narrowed. "You’re supposed to rest."
"Rest is boring. I want to sit in the chair by the balcony. Sunlight’s good for healing, isn’t it?"
She hesitated, caught between her duty and her sanity. I tilted my head, letting the red streaks in my hair catch the light. "Please," I added, dragging the word out just enough to make it sound wicked.
Her sigh was pure defeat. "Fine."
Getting me out of bed wasn’t hard—I wasn’t helpless—but I let her think I was. I leaned into her, gripping her shoulder, making her steady me as I swung my casted leg over the side. Her body was warm, solid, every inch of her pressed close to mine as she guided me to the chair.
"Careful," she murmured, her voice lower now, softer.
"Don’t worry," I said, my lips close to her ear. "I trust you."
Her breath hitched. For a second, just a second, she froze like the world had narrowed to that one spot between us. Then she tore herself away, dropping me into the chair a little too quickly.
I laughed. "Wasn’t that a little rough, Doctor? Or did you just want me sitting down before I noticed your hands were shaking again?"
She ignored me, fussing with the pillows, adjusting the angle of my leg. Professional. Always professional.
When she stepped back, I caught her wrist. She stilled instantly, eyes snapping to mine.
"Stay," I said, my grip light but firm. "You’re always running away. Sit with me for a minute."
"I have work—"
"Your work is me," I cut in. "So sit."
For once, she obeyed without a fight, lowering herself into the chair opposite mine.
I let the silence stretch before I started firing questions, rapid and relentless. "Do you have any siblings? What’s your dreq’? Ever been in love? Ever kissed a girl? Are you gay? You’re a lesbian, right?"
Her head jerked up at that last couple of questions . "That’s not appropriate."
I smirked. "Didn’t say it was. Answer anyway."
She didn’t. Which was an answer all by itself.
I leaned forward, resting my chin on my hand. "You are, aren’t you?"
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. "I’m not discussing my personal life with you."
I laughed, low and delighted. "God, you’re fun when you’re flustered."
Before she could retort, I shifted the subject. "Fine, tell me something medical, then. Impress me with your big brain."
She blinked. "What?"
"Pick anything. Teach me something."
Her brows knit together, but the challenge was too much for her pride to ignore. She straightened, sliding into lecture mode. "Alright. Do you know how the brain processes pain?"
I shook my head, smiling.
So she told me. She launched into an explanation about nociceptors and neurotransmitters, about how signals traveled up the spinal cord and were interpreted by the brain, about how perception shaped sensation.
Her hands moved as she spoke, her eyes lit up, her voice gained rhythm. She forgot to be nervous, forgot to be cold. She was radiant.
I didn’t hear half the words. I just watched her, soaking in the fire that lit her when she talked about what she loved.
When she finally trailed off, breathless, I leaned back in my chair and grinned.
"Continue. You are so hot when you say all those smart things."
Her jaw dropped.
I laughed so hard my ribs ached.