Page 68 of Toxic Temptation
“She will.”
Osip whistles low. “This should be interesting.”
I slam my phone on the table.Because I don’t want to.Like what she wants matters more than what Luka needs. Like her comfort is more important than my nephew’s safety.
But even as I tell myself I don’t give a damn what she wants, a voice in the back of my head whispers the truth I’m not ready to face.
Maybe I do care.
Maybe I care too much.
24
VESPER
I’m going to kill Jeremy Fleming.
Not metaphorically. Not in some distant fantasy where karma finally catches up to him. I’m talking about actual, premeditated murder.
If you think about it, it’s honestly a good thing. I’d be saving countless lives by taking his. That’s very utilitarian,for the common goodof me, y’know?
Plus, I don’t plan to take any pleasure in it.
(That’s a lie. I’d love every second.)
But my old friend, Crippling Guilt™, just won’t let me pull the literal or metaphorical trigger. I took an oath to do no harm. But as I drag myself up the stairs to my apartment after a twenty-eight-hour shift from hell, all I can think about is wrapping my hands around Jeremy’s throat and squeezing until that smug smile disappears forever.
I slap my palm against my forehead to ward off more thoughts of execution. The motion sends my world spinning, and I have to grip the banister to keep from falling backward down the stairs.
Those twenty-eight hours involved delivering a cancer diagnosis to the stunned parents of a ten-year-old, a four-hour surgery that nearly ended in disaster because the defibrillator started acting up, and a malfunction with one of the ventilators in ward six that left one of my comatose patients gasping for air on the brink of death.
That alone would have been the cherry on the shit sundae that was my day. But no—the universe then had to send Jeremy Fleming straight into my path.
And no, I could not just walk past the asshole. Not even when he gave me that shit-eating grin of his with a weird little nod that had my vagina trying to seal itself shut in a bout of anti-horniness.
So the hell shift peaked with a screaming match with Jeremy in the middle of the pediatric ward. The low point involved me calling him a “chowder head” because that’s what a five-year-old patient had called his dad earlier, and apparently, my exhausted brain thought it was the perfect insult.
Jeremy’s face had gone white as his bleached hair. “You can’t talk to me like that! I am the head of this hospital!”
“You’re a pathetic excuse for a human being!” I’d yelled back, loud enough for half the ward to hear. “Tell me, Jeremy, when did you sell your soul and how much did you get for it?”
He’d turned and stormed away while the nurses stared at me like I’d lost my mind.
Maybe they’re right. Maybe I did.
All I want now is coffee and my bed. My mattress is the one thing I’d splurged on when I moved into this shoebox apartment. Eighteen inches of memory foam paradise that consumed the entirety of my first paycheck of residency. Every other piece of furniture came from IKEA or Goodwill, but that mattress? Worth every penny.
I fumble with my keys at the door, then freeze.
The lights are on inside.
“No,” I whisper, cold dread washing over me as I push the door open. “Not today. I can’t do this today.”
But he’s never given much of a damn about my preferences. And sure enough, Prime Suspect #1 has barged in yet again. My dread morphs into irritation when I see Kovan standing in my living room, glaring around like a caged tiger in a dollhouse.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask by way of introduction.
“Hello to you, too.”
