Page 2 of Shadows of Recovery

When the group of women and their dance partners finally returned to their table, catching their breath and refilling their cocktails, Tristan watched closely. The man had maneuvered himself next to the redhead. As she turned away to laugh at something one of her friends said, Tristan saw the man subtly drop something into her drink.

Time seemed to slow, the jovial atmosphere around Tristan fading into the background. His grip on his drink tightened as he realized what he’d just witnessed. The easygoing, celebratory vibe of the night was suddenly overshadowed by a dark, urgent sense of danger. He knew he had to act quickly and decisively before the redhead took a sip of that drink.

By the time Tristan excused himself from his friends and made his way toward her, it was too late. Not only did the redhead take a sip, she tossed the entire drink back with a smile. He made his way across the room as the man she’d been dancing with was leading her toward the exit.

"Hey!" Tristan called out, his voice authoritative and firm. "Where are you taking her?"

The man paused, his grip tightening on the redhead’s arm. "Mind your own business.” He pulled her close. “C’mon, beautiful."

"Actually, it is my business." Tristan stepped closer and glanced at the redhead, who was clearly struggling to stay conscious. "I’m a doctor. She looks like she might be contagious for cranial rectumitus disease. You don’t want to be near her, or you might catch it.”

The man’s eyes widened in fear, his bravado faltering. "I—I didn't know. I’ll just leave then."

As the man disappeared into the crowd, Tristan chuckled. He’d told the man he might be exposed to “head up his ass disease.” He gently pulled the redhead into his arms. “C’mon, let’s get you someplace safe. What’s your name?”

She murmured incoherently, her body limp against his chest.

Tristan's instincts kicked in, and without a moment's hesitation, he started making his way back toward the group of women. The once lighthearted mood had shifted, his focus now solely on the redhead and the danger she’d unknowingly placed herself in. As he approached, he spotted Jenna Cade, who had been laughing and singing earlier but now seemed more alert as she noticed him heading in their direction.

Jenna’s expression changed from relaxed to concerned when she recognized him. Tristan wasn’t just any guy from the bar—he was her boss, the head of the Waverly County ER. She knew Tristan well enough to recognize that something was wrong.

“Jenna,” Tristan said in a low, urgent tone as he reached her. “I need her purse.”

“What? Why?” Jenna’s words were slightly slurred, her earlier fun clearly catching up with her, but she handed over Sophie’s purse without hesitation.

Tristan took it quickly. “She’s been drugged, and I’m getting her out of here. I’ll have her call you in the morning.”

Jenna, though not entirely sober, seemed to grasp the seriousness of the situation. “Oh my God, thank you, Tristan.” Her voice was filled with relief and gratitude as she steadied herself against the table.

With the purse in hand, Tristan moved swiftly. He needed to keep the redhead away from the predator and get her to safety. The carefree night had taken a dark turn, but he was determined to ensure it wouldn’t end in disaster.

"It's okay, sweetheart. I've got you," he whispered, making his way out of the bar. Tristan wondered why no one else in the bar tried to stop him. He was behaving as suspiciously as the other man, though hehadtold her friend and his friends he was leaving and why.

The ride to his home on the grounds of the Blackwell Institute was a blur. Tristan’s primary concern was the redhead’s safety and ensuring she got through the night without any more harm. He carefully carried her inside and up the flight of stairs. He laid her down on her side on his bed and removed her heels before covering her with a warm blanket. He sat nearby, keeping a vigilant watch over her until he was sure she would keep breathing. Finally, he dozed off.

* * *

The next morning,Sophie awoke, disoriented and with a throbbing headache. She looked around the unfamiliar room, her mind racing. "Where am I?" she whispered, sitting up slowly.

The room was spacious, with high ceilings and exposed wooden beams giving the room a warm, earthy feel. The centerpiece of the room was a large, king-sized bed with a sturdy, handcrafted frame made from barn wood. She was lying covered with soft, cream-colored linens, layered with a thick plaid wool blanket in deep reds and greens, and a collection of mix-and-match pillows.

On either side of the bed were matching nightstands made from the same wood as the bed frame. Each nightstand held a vintage-style lantern lamp with a warm amber glow. The nightstand closest to her held a bottle of water.

At the foot of the bed was a wooden trunk with iron hardware. Her dress lay folded upon it, her clutch on top of it. Beside that were her shoes. That was when she realized she was wearing a man’s white undershirt over her underwear.

She sat up slowly, the room spinning slightly as she did. Her body felt heavy, and her thoughts were sluggish, like she was wading through thick fog. She looked around, trying to get her bearings.

A familiar ping made her jump. She reached for her clutch and pulled her phone free, desperate for some clue, something to explain where she was and how she got here. As she unlocked the screen, she saw a trio of text messages from Jenna.

The first message was sent just after midnight.

Jenna: Glad Tristan’s taking care of you. You were drugged by the guy you were with on the dance floor.

Sophie frowned, trying to remember. Flashes of the night came back—dancing, laughing with Jenna and their friends, and then...nothing. Her heart pounded as she opened the next message.

Jenna: Call me when you're conscious.

She swallowed hard, confusion mixing with fear.Conscious? What happened?

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