Page 44 of Night Shift

With a Steri-Strip in hand, he leaned in close to the cut on my cheek. And it was then, in this hazy, probably shock-induced moment, that I realized just how drop-dead gorgeous he was. While Braxton looked a lot like Atticus, Conan was so different. He was tall, and his body was unmistakably muscular, a clear testament to his dedication to working out. His build was thick yet defined, and his muscles rippled under his skin in a way that was hard to miss.

The auburn beard on his face was wild and untamed, perfectly suiting his other rugged features. His dirty-blond hair, tied up in a bun, gave him an intensely masculine appeal. But it was his eyes that truly captured my attention; they were a brilliant emerald green, sparkling with confidence, drawing me in.

His skin was fair and dotted with freckles like mine, which added a boyish charm to his face. His lips, full and inviting, had more than their fair share of freckles, especially around the left lower side. It was a unique feature that only added to his charm. The crow’s feet around his eyes were more pronounced when he smiled, and a mischievous smirk seemed to be his signature expression, making it look like he was always on the brink of a playful joke.

His arms were covered in full-sleeve tattoos, intricate designs that hinted at the passions and experiences of his life.

At that moment, as I took in Conan’s striking appearance, I found myself momentarily breathless, suddenly and acutely aware of his raw, almost intimidating, appeal.

Just then, the door to the room swung open, and Atticus appeared, finding Conan tenderly holding my cheek, his lips a mere couple of inches from mine. Conan stepped back, and heat flared in my cheeks.

Atticus’s gaze moved back and forth between his younger brother and me, an odd look of confusion crossing his face. Shaking it off, he asked in a tight, clipped voice, “Samantha, are you all right?”

“Atticus, yes, I’m okay. Conan saved me.”

Atticus rushed over to me, and his expression changed. Our eyes locked for a moment, and I noticed an intense fear in his winter-gray gaze, but there was something else too—a possessiveness that caught me off guard.

“Sam, what happened?” he demanded.

“Someone tried to kidnap her,” Conan said, slipping into a protective stance beside me. “I managed to stop the thugs, but she got hurt.”

Atticus’s eyes narrowed as he took in my injuries. A jealous energy now seemed to be radiating off him. It was as if he couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else taking care of me. He quickly grabbed some gloves and supplies from a nearby cart.

“Let me see your arm,” Atticus said in a clinical tone, extending his hand to me. I hesitated for a moment before lowering my injured arm. He removed the gauze, revealing the deep cut and a couple of smaller ones on my inner forearm.

His eyes widened and his breath hitched while he examined the wounds. For an instant, I saw a haunted look in his eyes, as if he were reliving a terrible memory. He took a step back, visibly shaken, before regaining his composure.

“Let’s move the head of your bed up so that you can be more comfortable while I work on your arm.” He pressed his lips in a tight line. “Conan, can you bring me a suture kit, please?” I noticed a slight tremor in his voice.

Conan nodded and quickly retrieved the necessary supplies.

The atmosphere in the room grew tenser. Atticus’s usually steady hands were trembling slightly, a sign of the emotional turmoil beneath his professional exterior. He began by cleaning the deep cut carefully, his touch gentle yet focused. The antiseptic stung a bit, but it was a necessary discomfort.

“Is everything okay, Dr. Thorin?” I asked, trying to understand the agony I saw in his eyes.

“Everything’s fine,” he grunted, clearly struggling to maintain his composure.

“Atticus,” Conan said softly, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder. They exchanged a brief, intense look that spoke volumes about some secret they shared.

Atticus turned away to prepare a local anesthetic to numb the area. “You’ll feel a small pinch,” he warned, and true to his word, there was a brief, sharp sensation as the needle pierced my skin. Gradually, the area around the cut began to feel numb, the pain subsiding as the anesthetic took effect.

With that, Atticus started the suturing process. He threaded the needle with a steady hand and got to work. Each stitch was deliberately and carefully placed. His skill impressed me. I could barely feel the sutures being placed, just a slight tugging sensation. His breathing grew more labored with each stitch, a sign of how personally he was taking the situation. It was as if each suture was a mark of his own failure to protect me and he was determined not to leave any more scars than he had to.

Conan was also observing Atticus closely, his head tilted in contemplation. His eyes softened with admiration, yet there was a line of concern etched onto his forehead. It was obvious that Conan understood his brother’s emotional conflict.

Atticus finished the suturing with a last knot, then carefully bandaged the wound, ensuring it was secure and protected.

He took a step back, his gaze lingering on my arm before meeting my eyes. There was a vulnerability there that I had never seen before. He was no longer just my doctor, but someone deeply affected by my injury.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Dr. Thorin?” I asked.

“Yes. I’m good, Samantha,” he said, having regained his usual clinical composure.

“Thank you,” I whispered, touched by the care he had shown me despite his unease. But he just nodded curtly.

“Rest now,” he said, his voice soft but distant. “I’ll check on you later.” And with that, he turned and left the room.

I wondered what had caused him to have such an intense reaction to my injuries. Conan met my questioning gaze but said nothing, leaving me to ponder the mystery of Atticus Thorin’s past and the emotional scars that haunted him.

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