Page 135 of Wicked Proposal
Fucking hell.Even his tone is begging to be punched. “I’ll go get another nurse.”
“No.” He grabs my wrist as I turn, keeping me there. “I wantyou.”
It roots me to the spot—his touch, the memory of it. The force of his death grip. Any tighter, and the pressure will turn into pain.
But this time, I don’t freeze. This time, an unfamiliar fire keeps my limbs from falling numb. A fire I haven’t felt in a long time.
Rage.
I turn back to Brad, eyes blazing. “Leave,” I spit. “Or I’ll have security throw you out.”
“On what grounds?” His sardonic smile hasn’t wavered for a second. “You don’t have a restraining order. You never asked for one.”
Because I thought I was done with you.“That can be fixed.”
“After five years?” He laughs. “No, sweetie, it can’t. No judge in their right mind would take you seriously.”
“Try me.”
He leans in, voice low and smug. “I’m a patient,” he whispers. “I have every right to be here. So, you can either do your job, or Ican report you to your bosses. Bet they’d like an excuse to get rid of you. From what I hear, you’re quite a handful.”
“I do what needs to be done,” I say flatly. “Now, let me go, or I’ll scream.”
“I’ll let you go if you visit me.”
“Fuck off, Brad.” I wipe the sweat from my brow with my free hand. “This isn’t the place for your games!”
“But it’s the place that signs your paychecks.” His grip tightens just a little. A warning:Do not test me.“So do your fucking job, or I’ll make sure no hospital in the country will ever hire you again.”
Pain sears up my arm, but I bite my lip and bear it. Because it’s nothing compared to what I’ve endured in the past—and to his threat.
Brad isn’t the kind of man who bluffs. He’s the kind of man who’ll scorch the earth just to rob you of the feeling of grass under your feet.
And right now, I can’t afford to be burned again.
Because it’s not just about me anymore.
“Fine. You first.”
Pleased as punch, Brad lets me go. “Excellent. You may begin.”
I rub my sore wrist. I can already tell it’ll bruise. Add it to the tab, I guess. “You haven’t told me what’s wrong with you.”
As if wanting to mock me, he lifts his own wrist. “This hurts,” he says with a fake whimper.
I sigh and pick up a fresh pair of gloves. “Let’s see it, then.”
“No.”
“‘No’?”
“No to those.” He nods towards the gloves. “I’m… allergic to latex.”
My eyebrows high-five the ceiling. “Are you now?”
“It’s new.”
“It’s not in your chart.”
