Page 86 of The Potter

He no longer shakes.

He hasn’t blacked out since that first time I found him in the bathroom.

He can do this.

I have faith in him.

“Are we ready, Dr. Potter?”

Astor pops his head through the door and gives me a thumbs-up, ignoring Vance’s glare.

“I know I’m ready,” I say with enthusiasm. I’ve tried very hard not to show even a hint of anxiety regarding this procedure. Vance has been watching me so closely that I knew if I showed any signs of doubt, he would call the whole thing off. And we are so not doing that.

“Good,” Astor says, coming over to my bedside and taking my hand. He places a kiss to the top of it, where a clear bandage covers my IV. “I’m going to take you down to the OR and get you ready.”

“No,” Vance clips out. “I’ll take her.”

Astor keeps his eyes on me when he says, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, brother. You’re already on edge. Seeing the anesthesiologist give her the medicine could be a trigger.”

Honestly, I want Vance to do what he feels like he needs to do to get through this, but I understand Astor trying to separate our personal relationship. It’s probably best Vance treats me like any other patient.

Straightening, Vance strides up to the bed, his eyes hard and full of authority. “Astor, your involvement in this case is a courtesy. You will not question me in my operating room.”

I smother a gasp while Astor fights off a grin. “Whatever you say, Dr. Potter. It’s your case.”

And that’s how I find myself being wheeled down the hall with all three Potter brothers at my side.

When the anesthesiologist places a mask over my face a few minutes later, and asks me to count backwards… I fall asleep to a pair of green eyes.

My potter has arrived.

It’s funny how the best things in life bring you pain before they bring you pleasure.

I knew going under the knife again would be excruciating, but unlike the last time I found myself waking up in a recovery room, I welcomed the pain.

“How are you feeling?” I fight through the fog of anesthesia and turn my head, finding the source of the whispered question. Duke.

“Hi,” I say, testing the heaviness of my tongue. “How is he?”

His mouth, shaped similarly to his brother’s, tips up into a smile. “You’ve just been gutted and stitched back together, and you’re worried about how Vance feels?”

Vance.

He says his name as if he’s a guy we know who shops at a retail market and not the man whose brilliance surpasses that of a mere mortal.

“Yeah,” I croak, my voice raspy from the tube that was in my throat. “I need to know if he…”

I need to know if I brought back his trauma.

Duke tucks the blanket at my side and sighs, pointing to the foot of my bed, where an exhausted Vance sits, his hand resting on my foot as he sleeps.

Grinning, I look up at Duke. “He’s not sitting in a pile of destruction.”

“Nor did his hands shake once while he was operating.”

Relief blooms in my chest, sending a rush of endorphins through me as I focus on the man at my bedside, beautifully broken and incredibly strong. “He did it,” I whisper to Duke. “He overcame his demons.”

Duke chuckles. “I wouldn’t mention that to him. He wasn’t happy about it.”

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