Page 6 of His Orders

Ethan Cross sits at the far end of the room, effortlessly at ease in his dark suit and rolled-up sleeves, his broad frame leaning back against the bar like he owns the place. Like nothing has changed.

Except something has. Because this time, he sees me and he doesn’t look away.

I know I should look away. I shouldn’t wonder if he still smells like cedar and soap. I shouldn’t think about how his fingers looked wrapped around his glass, how easy it would be to slide my own along the rim and brush against his. I shouldn’t ache for something I told myself was never mine to want.

But after years of running, of being controlled, of belonging to men who only wanted to keep me in a gilded cage, I want—for once—to make a mistake of my own choosing, unlike Daniel, who came in far too strong and made me believe no one else would ever match up to him.

I raise my glass to him.

Ethan’s eyes darken. And then he stands and begins moving toward me.

2

ETHAN

Ilike discipline. I like precision. I like knowing exactly how deep to cut, exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly what it takes to put a man back together when he’s been torn apart. My world runs on control—on structure, on absolute certainty. There is no room for hesitation. No space for mistakes.

In the OR, that’s easy.

Outside it? Less so.

It’s been sixteen hours since I started my shift, and my body knows it. My shoulder aches from hunching over an open abdomen for too long, my brain still cataloging every step of the trauma case I closed an hour ago. But instead of making the smart choice—heading back to my apartment, peeling off the stiff collar of my shirt, forcing myself to get some goddamn sleep—I step into Crowley’s.

It’s an old-money kind of place, the kind that keeps the music low and the whiskey expensive. Refined but not pretentious. The clientele are mostly professionals—corporate types winding down, surgeons in half-loosened ties, the occasional politicianmaking backroom deals over overpriced scotch. I don’t talk to anyone. I don’t come here to talk.

I nod at the bartender, take my usual seat, roll my sleeves up to the elbows. It’s an old habit—surgical instinct, maybe. I don’t like fabric restricting my wrists. My hands always have to be ready.

A glass of bourbon slides in front of me. I take a slow sip, feeling the familiar burn slide down my throat, letting the day settle into my bones.

And then, across the room, tucked into the glow of dim lighting and crystal reflections, I spot Ivy Dawson sitting at the bar, perfectly poised to ruin my night.

She shouldn’t be here.

Not in this city. Not in my goddamn line of sight.

I tell myself I imagined it, that my brain is too fried from surgery, that the alcohol is already getting to me—but no. No, that’s her. Dark hair, loose waves tumbling over one shoulder. A short dress, wicked in the way it clings to her, daring eyes to linger. She’s talking to someone—Cassie, I think—but it doesn’t matter.

She laughs at something, head tilting back just slightly, and a dull ache slides under my ribs.

I know better than to react. I’ve been good at ignoring this for a long time.

Ivy Dawson has always been a bad idea waiting to happen.

I’ve known her since she was a kid, running after Drew, climbing trees she had no business being in, scrapping with boys twice hersize. I was twenty when she was twelve, a med student drowning in textbooks, barely paying attention to the girl who was always trying to prove she wasn’t as small as people thought.

And then she grew up.

By the time she hit twenty, she wasn’t following Drew around anymore. She was watching me. Always just on the edge of my awareness, at family gatherings, at charity dinners, at the rare occasions where our circles inevitably collided.

I ignored it.

She was too young, too reckless, too much. And I had no business looking at her. I don’t do impulsive. I don’t do chaotic. I don’t do women who make me feel like I might lose control.

The women in my life are predictable. Polished. Subdued. They don’t challenge me, don’t push, don’t tempt me into anything I’d lose my sleep over.

Ivy Dawson is none of those things.

She’s relentless, impossible to contain, too wild, too free-willed, the kind of woman who slips through fingers and refuses to be held. And now she’s here, in the last place I ever expected to see her.

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