Page 78 of Dr. Fellow

As I turn to exit the room, he grabs my arm, his grip surprisingly strong. “You want me to stay? Shut the fuck up, you dumb cunt. I’m going to fucking kill you.”

My heart slams into my throat. This isn’t the first time a patient has gotten physical with me, or even threatened me for that matter, but it is the first time I’ve felt genuine fear. Not because I think I’m in real danger, but because I’m entirely alone in this situation.

Normally we room patients who are withdrawing from drugs front and center in case a situation like this arises. Any other day, there would already be a slew of people in this room to help me, and the patient would be restrained.

“Take your hands off of me,” I state calmly, attempting to de-escalate the situation. I might be short, but I like to think my nurse voice is stern. “You can walk out of here right now, but you need to take your hands off me.”

I glance at the wall, trying to determine how far I am from the emergency button. Unfortunately, it’s all of the way across the room, and I can’t get to it without making it obvious to the patient.

“Look, I understand that you’re scared and frustrated,” I say, keeping my voice steady as I feel his grip tighten. “But I’m here to help you, not to keep you here against your will. Like I said, you’re free to leave. But I need you to let go of me so that we can walk to the desk together, and have you sign a form.”

His nails dig into my skin painfully, eyes wide as they quickly dart around the room like he’s searching for an escape.

I continue speaking, trying to keep his focus on the reality of the situation and away from the confusion clouding his mind. “It’s my job to make sure you’re safe, and that includes helping find support when you leave us. But like I said, we don’t have to do that. You can go.”

Slowly, I feel his grip loosening as my words seem to reach the rational part of him that’s still accessible beneath the drug’s influence. But before I can pull free, his fingers tighten again, and he starts dragging me across the room toward the door. Everything begins to blur as I hear the patient threaten me again, followed by a familiar, stern voice coming from the hallway.

“Take your fucking hands off my wife.”

Chapter 31

Walker

Idon’t have a ton of professional experience with patients who are impaired by things other than anesthesia, but one look at the guy who has his beady claws wrapped around Morgan’s arm, and I know he’s on something. That fact alone should influence me to follow protocol, call security, and verbally de-escalate the situation while we wait for help. But he’s assaulting my wife, and every ounce of patience in my body flies out of the window the second I see her terrified face.

Before the patient can respond to my threat, adrenaline courses through me, and I find myself lunging forward and tackling him to the hard ground in a single motion. Fortunately, he releases Morgan on his way down, and she’s able to get to the wall and press the emergency button. I swing my leg over the patient’s back, pinning his lower half as I work to wrangle his flailing arms.

“We need some help in here,” I call for good measure, hoping someone will get off their ass and do their damn job.

I lean into the patient who is muttering irrational threats as he struggles beneath my body.

“Touch my wife again,” I warn, feeling something animalistic unlock deep inside of me, “and it’ll be the last thing that you ever do.”

After what feels like an eternity, though it can’t be more than a few seconds, footsteps echo through the hallway. An off-duty police officer steps in and takes my place to restrain the patient, securing him in handcuffs. I stand and ignore the questions that are being hurdled my way to crouch beside Morgan.

She’s curled up in a tight ball against the wall, the same way she was the night I found her on my shower floor. Her green eyes are wide when they meet mine, their usual contagious spark clouded by the aftermath of fear.

I reach out and brush a stray hair out of her eyes. She might not want to be my wife, but a title changes nothing when it comes to how I feel about her.

“Can I see your arm?”

The world evaporates around me. All I can hear are the shaky breaths coming out of her mouth as she calms herself down. All I can see is the quiver of her bottom lip as she holds off tears. All I can think is how I need to keep her safe.

She nods slowly, extending the affected arm toward me. My eyes scan her injury, noting the nail marks so deep they drew blood and the mottled red of the skin where he held her.

I hope the fucker pays for this.

I’ll make sure the fucker pays for this.

But first I need to get her out of here.

“Just a few scratches. I’ll clean it, and you’ll be fine,” I state, drawing my attention back to her. “Let’s get you off this floor.”

I reach out my hands and she takes them, pausing before she stands. “I’ll clean it. Don’t act like you understand wound care.”

The corner of her mouth kicks up, and I can’t help but smile back—I missed her. God, I fucking missed her, and she scared the shit out of me for a second there.

“Believe it or not, little devil, I am a surgeon. Basic first aid is within my wheelhouse.”

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