Page 11 of A Prescription to My Heart

Soren watches me. “You did good in there.”

I blink. Did His Highness just pay me a compliment?

Before I can respond, he’s already turning away, back to his usual cold, distant self.

***

The worst, however, is not over yet.

Before twelve, another patient begins to deteriorate. Monitors beep. Nurses bark orders. A child wails in the corner of his brother’s room while his mother desperately tries to soothe him. The fluorescent lights are too bright, making the urgency of the moment feel even sharper.

The patient—Oliver Johnson, eight years old, cystic fibrosis—is struggling. His oxygen saturation is dropping, his breathing is shallow, and his small body trembles under the weight of his own exhaustion.

Dr. Greene still isn’t answering his pages, and Soren Calloway is in full surgeon mode—cold, commanding, and absolutely infuriating.

“Get me a portable X-ray,” he orders, barely glancing at one of Greene’s interns, who rushes off. “We need to rule out pneumothorax.”

I adjust the mask on Oliver’s face, my pulse matching the erratic rhythm of the monitors. “We should start antibiotics now.”

Soren’s sharp gaze cuts to me. “You’re two steps behind, Nurse Vanse. Keep up.”

I bristle but bite back my irritation. How can he be so precise, efficient, so completely void of anything resembling warmth? I shouldn’t let it get to me, but the absolute gal makes my skin prickle.

“I’m two stepsaheadwith the correct dosage,” I say sharply, handing the order sheet to another nurse. “We’ll start cefepime and tobramycin.”

Soren’s gaze narrows. “You calculated it?”

I glance up. “Yes.”

His lips press into a thin line, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he focuses back on Oliver, his attention fully on stabilizing the boy. I push past the annoyance and do the same.

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours, but eventually, Oliver’s breathing evens out. His mother sobs in relief and his little brother, Andy, buries his head into her arms. The monitors settle. And just like that, the storm passes.

I step back, exhaling for what feels like the first time in hours. My scrubs stick to my skin, damp from adrenaline and sweat. I need a second to reset, to breathe.

But I don’t get it.

Because the moment I step away from Oliver’s bedside, Soren is right there, his voice low and clipped. “Supply closet. Now.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

His dark eyes flick to the side, where a few nurses are watching us too closely. He lowers his voice. “We need to talk. Privately.”

I hesitate. I should tell him to shove his arrogant demand somewhere unpleasant, but something in his tone—the controlled edge, the barely leashed irritation—makes me bite my tongue.

Fine. Whatever.

I follow him, ignoring the curious glances as we step into the supply closet. The moment the door closes, he turns to face me, and suddenly, I realize just how small this space is.

Soren towers over me, his presence dominating the entire closet. Shelves stocked with bandages, gloves, and medical supplies line the walls, but all I can focus on ishim.

His dark gaze pins me in place. “You miscalculated Johnson’s dosage.”

I bristle. “No, I didn’t.”

His expression doesn’t change. “You adjusted for weight, but not renal clearance.”

Heat rushes up my neck. “I was going to recheck it before finalizing the chart.”

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