Page 2 of Toxic Temptation
Of course he did.
Because Taylor Statton isn’t really a doctor; he’s a stooge. A selfish, preening, power-hungry social climber whose overly gelled head is stuck so far up Jeremy’s rectum that it’s a wonder he’s not the one who needs nebulizer treatments himself.
I can’t say any of that out loud, though. I don’t give a rat’s ass about protecting Statton’s reputation—I just don’t want to heap a single ounce more worry on this woman and her daughter. They’ve already suffered far more than anyone should have to.
“Dr. Statton—” …is a pompous twat who knows that, for every extra night in this hospital, many undeserving pockets are being lined, including his.“—doesn’t know Harper like I do. Iwill sign off on her discharge papers tonight and you’re free to take her home.”
“And if she has trouble breathing again?—”
“Call me anytime,” I insist, gripping her arm. “I will come by your house myself if that’s what it takes to make sure your baby girl is safe.”
Mrs. Moore’s face splits into a broad smile, the first one I’ve seen from her in days. “Thank you, Dr. Fairfax. You’re an angel.”
“No need to—” I break off at the sudden ruckus of raised voices coming from down the hall. Sounds like a scuffle at the nurse’s station, if I’m not mistaken. Not the first time that’s happened, nor will it be the last. Anxious parents and overtired, overworked RNs do not mix. “—thank me. Excuse me, please.”
Mrs. Moore is looking in the direction of the ruckus, her eyes falling back into their resting state of lip-tearing worry.
I bow out of the room and start striding down the hallway, cracking my knuckles as I go. Which one of Jeremy’s goons do I have to deal with today? Whoever it is, I hope they’re ready for me. Given the adrenaline pumping through my veins thanks to that dipshit, Statton, and his manipulative catastrophizing, I’m more than ready for a fight.
But when I round the corner and see the size of the man towering over one of the nurses, the fight in me shrivels up and runs for cover for two reasons.
One: This is no muscle-bound moron on Jeremy’s secret payroll. The unconscious child he’s carrying in his arms is proof enough of that.
Two: This man can snap me in half with just his pinkie finger.
He’s huge, dressed in a dark navy suit jacket that must’ve required acres of Italian silk to sew. The dark hair is just long enough to start to curl at the back of his neck. With the way his head is turned, I can only see a sliver of his jaw, but that sliver is viciously sharp and stubbled with the beginnings of a beard, and what little of his mouth is visible is hemmed into a savage frown.
Beyond all that, though, is the way the air and the people in the room seem to shift around him. Every eye is locked on him, jaws slung halfway to the floor, stuck somewhere between awestruck and terrified. There’s a palpable sense of violence rippling off of him like smoke from a fire.
So, yeah, “snap me in half” seems well within this man’s wheelhouse. But right now, it seems like Sonya’s the one who’s in danger of being snapped in half. She’s one of my better nurses, competent and quiet, never one to cause trouble. But at the moment, she’s found herself face-to-face with capital-TTrouble.
To her credit, Sonya is standing directly in the monstrous man’s path, despite being a good two heads shorter than he is. She’s employing the soothing, placating voice that’s drilled into students during nursing school.
“Sir, I understand your situation, but I’m afraid you can’t stay with?—”
“I’m not leaving his side, do you understand?” The man’s voice is a snarl with thorns. “The boy needs to be seen, right fucking now.”
Sonya flinches back. It’s not often you hear that kind of language in St. Raphael’s. Especially not towards someone as sweet and patient as Sonya.
I start walking a little faster.
“I need a damn doctor,” he continues. “So unless you can find me one, I’d suggest you get the hell out of my way.”
“Sir, I want to help you?—”
“Then why the hell are you still standing here? Go get someone.”
Sonya’s bottom lip starts to quiver. The two other nurses flanking her have moved out of the line of fire. My instincts are screaming at me to do the same.
This is not a man you want to mess with.
But as any good doctor would, I block out the white noise and focus on the child in his arms. A boy, pale, Caucasian, too skinny. Probably around seven or eight years old.
His lips are swollen. His eyes are puffy. He’s barely breathing. Anaphylaxis, almost certainly allergenic in nature. The textbook of my mind cracks open and words start to float to the forefront of my brain.
As we speak, IgE antibodies bound to mast cells are triggering degranulation. It’s histamine rush hour in the boy’s veins, every single one of them cranking wide open to accommodate the traffic jam. Every second drags his blood pressure lower and lower, a downward spiral that will end in cardiac arrest if I don’t?—
“Let me take a look at him,” I blurt just as Sonya starts tripping over her next response. Her gaze falls on me gratefully, cheeks flushing pink as she retreats behind the nurse’s desk for safe harbor.
