Page 6 of Toxic Temptation
VESPER
I stand still, torn between misty eyes and the refrain running through my head on an endless loop. It’s something like,What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Vesper?
“Are you okay?” the man asks softly from where he kneels on the tile floor. He’s running his huge hand over Luka’s downy head again and again in gentle circles. The tenderness of his touch doesn’t match his bulk, his clenched jaw.
Nor, to say the least, the still-smoking gun lying next to him.
The boy, Luka, nods. His swelling is already starting to ebb, enough that I can finally see the evidence of real features beneath all the puffiness. He has grey eyes. A deep, thoughtful grey, almost silver.
“I-I was s-scared, Uncle Kovan.” His little fingers curl into the neckline of his uncle’s shirt.
The baritone rumble replies, “You had nothing to be scared of. I promised you I would always keep you safe.”
I know that I’m not meant to hear this. Not any of it. He isn’t talking in barely-above-a-whisper for Luka’s benefit. But as much as I feel like I’m intruding on a private moment, it’s also too beautiful to miss.
There’s something intensely moving about watching a child cling to the person they trust the most. I’ve seen it a million times in my time in the pediatric ward.
That unconditional faith that a child puts in their caregiver. Their unreserved belief that they can fix anything.
I felt that once, too.
It’s one of my earliest memories. It also happens to be one of my strongest. I had broken my arm and I was lying on a gurney in this very hospital, twenty-five years ago, clutching my useless hand and crying. It felt like the world was ending.
I would never be able to climb the monkey bars again.
I wouldn’t be able to jump rope or high-five.
I’d have to learn to write with my left hand.
But then my father walked in—dressed in a white doctor’s coat identical to the one I have on right now—and suddenly, it didn’t feel like the end of the world anymore.
Because immediately, I knew that, whatever was wrong with my arm, my father could fix.
I looked at him then the way all my patients look at their parents. The way that Luka is looking at his uncle right now.
And if a child can look at this dangerous, gun-wielding, tattoo-drenched criminal like that—the man can’t be all that bad.
… Right?
“Thanks for saving me,” Luka mumbles into his chest.
The man strokes the boy’s hair, but his eyes—as green and mossy as a pond after a rainstorm—dart to me.
“I had some help,” he says graciously. “Let’s thank the good doctor for bringing you back.”
Luka peeks at me from between his uncle’s brawny forearms. “Thank you, Doctor,” he says softly.
I fold my hands in front of me. “It was my pleasure, Luka.”
He smiles, revealing a set of uneven teeth, laid on top of each other as though fighting for dominance. Despite the epinephrine stabilizing his system, his cheeks maintain a natural puffiness. He’s soft and buttery with baby fat still, like a little cherub, albeit one clutched in the arms of a devil.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
I’m on the verge of answering with my standard, “I’m Dr. Fairfax.” But then my gaze goes to Luka’s eagle-eyed uncle and the snake tattoo crawling up the side of his neck. “My name is Vesper,” I say instead.
“‘Vesper’?” Luka repeats, his nose scrunching up in confusion. “That’s a name?”
I chuckle. “My mother was going through a religious phase when she had me. My father liked it because it was the name of a cocktail he enjoyed.”
