Page 2 of Possessive Doctor

“What? But…but we have to–” he argues.

I turn on my heels and bark, “You know how much I hate repeating myself. I said, ‘Get out!’”

The color drains from his face, and he turns tail exiting the room. Like everyone else on the staff, he knows I don’t respond well to backtalk. My word is final. Anyone who questions me? Well… Let’s just say it never ends well for them.

Amy stares at me, wide-eyed and confused.

“It’s alright. I’m sorry. I just wanted some time alone with you before we check you over.”

“So, you are my husband. I thought so. I feel like you’ve been here with me the whole time.”

“That’s because I have, sweet girl. I’ve been here with you every day.”

At least, that’s no lie.

I close the curtain and lean over her bed, flashing my penlight in her eyes. Normal. Placing the earpieces of my stethoscope in my ears, I open her gown just a bit, warm the cold metal on my palm, and place it on her soft skin.

I’ve done this dozens of times, but it’s different this time. Her nearness turns my whole body on fire. Blood rushes to my crotch, and I have to move a bit to fight the discomfort. Thank fuck I have a white coat on.

But listening to her heartbeat only amplifies whatever I feel for her. Shit. I’ve got it bad. So fucking bad.

I sit down on the edge of the bed and ask her, “Do you know why you’re here?”

“No. I don’t even know where here is.” She tries to shake her head but stops and winces.

“Easy. Here is Mercy Hospital. You were in a very bad accident. The nurses are going to come in. They’ll draw some blood and run some tests. If everything comes back the way I expect, we’ll refer you to your other doctors for clearance.”

“And then what? What happens next? I don’t know who I am or where I belong. I don’t know what I do. Am I in school? Do I have a job? You told me that my name is Amy, but who’s Amy?”

“Don’t worry about that now. Like I said, it will all come back. Once you’re cleared, there’s no reason to keep you here, but you’ll still need to work on your recovery at home.”

Her parents are dead, and her house has been vacant for weeks. She can’t be alone right now. Hell, she can’t even drive to get groceries. So when I say home, it’s with me. End of discussion.

“Okay. I’ll try to be patient…” She looks at me as if she’s certain she’s known me forever. Yeah, there’s no way I’m letting her out of my sight.

“Andrew. Call me Andrew.”

I step out to the nurse’s station. The three duty nurses, who are busy cackling like hens, see me and stop talking.

“The patient is currently suffering from amnesia, so I’ll order a scan. I suspect it’s only temporary. Understand that this aspect of her condition is not your concern. Now, go do your jobs and call her other doctors to let them know.”

They say nothing but two of them scurry away toward Amy’s room while the third contacts the other doctors. I go to the coffee station and pour myself a cup, telling myself that I’m doing the right thing.

If her memory does return, she’ll understand. She’ll thank me for being the one who took care of her when she had no one else in the world. She’ll probably be happy I took it upon myself to go beyond my duties as a physician.

Who am I kidding? She’s not leaving my side. It’s where she belongs. I knew it from the moment I first saw her. She’ll learn that too…eventually.

Once she’s prepped and on her way to the radiology department, I take down the home address on her insurance information and slip the set of house keys out of her bag of personal effects.

What will she think if she comes home with me and finds no indication that she lives there? Before I can take her home with me, I need to move in some of her belongings. But I won’t deny that stepping into her house gives me some kind of sick satisfaction.

But…a very small part of me wonders why the hell I’m doing this.

Why not just confess now? Why not tell her that I’m nothing more than a doctor who has become completely infatuated with her while she was asleep?

There’s only one reason. I need to let her believe this lie so she doesn’t slip through my fingers. I can’t explain the way I’m feeling or the sleepless nights I’ve spent staring up at the ceiling, wishing she was there beside me.

Most of my waking hours are consumed by thoughts of her—how her voice sounds, what she likes and doesn’t like, what she does in her free time, if she tastes as sweet as she looks.

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