Page 3 of My Masked Savior
“Small pinch,” I warn, sliding the needle in smoothly.
She flinches, but her eyes never leave mine. The oxygen mask covers half her face, but I can read the fear in those stunning brown eyes.
“You’re doing great,” I say, securing the line with tape. “We’re getting you to Memorial. They’ve got respiratory specialists who’ll take good care of you.” I check her vitals again. “Oxygen levels are already improving. The worst is over.”
Her eyelids flutter, relief visible in the relaxation of her shoulders.
“These attacks can be terrifying, but you’re stable now.” I adjust the flow rate on her IV, surprised by my need to comfort her. Typically, I maintain professional distance—necessary when you see the things I do—but something about her vulnerability makes me respond differently.
Morgan’s hand finds mine, squeezing gently in gratitude. The touch sends electricity straight through me, igniting a fire I have no business feeling. Her fingertips brush against my wrist as she releases me, and my cock stiffens again, the metal of my piercing straining uncomfortably against my uniform pants.
Fuck. This is completely inappropriate.
I shift on the bench, trying to reposition without drawing attention. The movement only makes things worse, my erection now pressing visibly against my thigh. I grab her chart, placing it casually over my lap as I pretend to review her information.
Morgan’s eyes flicker downward briefly before darting back to my face. Her cheeks flush crimson, spreading down her neck and disappearing beneath her collar.
Jenkins calls back from the driver’s seat, “Five minutes to Memorial!”
I clear my throat, grateful for the interruption. “Almost there,” I tell her, my voice huskier than intended.
She nods, that blush blazing across her skin, eyes now avoiding mine. Her pulse monitor beeps faster, and I’m not sure if it’s lingering anxiety or the fact that her EMT is as hard as a rock while treating her.
The ambulance backs into the emergency bay at Memorial, and I force myself to regain composure. By the time Jenkins opens the rear doors, I’ve managed to will away my inappropriate reaction, though the memory of it burns hot in my mind.
“Twenty-nine-year-old female, severe asthma attack complicated by panic response,” I report to the attending physician as we wheel Morgan through the automatic doors. “Albuterol inhaler ineffective, responded well to Benralizumab. Oxygen levels stabilized en route.”
The hospital staff swarm around her gurney like worker bees, checking vitals and preparing to transfer her to a hospital bed. I stay beside her through the handoff, my hand resting on the rail near hers. It’s standard procedure to remain until the patient is fully transferred to hospital care, but tonight it feels personal.
The attending physician nods after reviewing her chart. “We’ll take it from here.”
Those five words shouldn’t bother me. I hear them every shift, multiple times a day. But tonight, I’m reluctant to step back.
I lean closer to Morgan, whose breathing has normalized, though her eyes still hold residual fear. “You’re in good hands now. They’ll run some tests, probably keep you overnight for observation.”
She blinks up at me, those dark eyes searching mine. Her fingers reach out suddenly, grasping my wrist. She points at the oxygen mask with her other hand.
“You want to say something?” I ask.
She nods.
I glance at the monitors—her stats are good enough for a moment without supplemental oxygen. I gently lift the mask from her face, leaning closer to hear her.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice hoarse. “You saved me.”
Something in her tone triggers a memory—the identical tone of gratitude from someone else I’d saved, years ago. A woman with bruises hidden beneath her clothes,terror in her eyes that wasn’t simply from her injuries. I’d recognized the signs immediately. The same instinct flares now as I notice the haunted look in her beautiful brown eyes.
What secrets do those eyes hide, princess?
“Just doing my job,” I reply, but I know that’s not entirely true. I’ve already decided I’ll investigate her background later. Just to make sure she’s okay, I tell myself. Just to check she’s not in danger. I memorized her name and address when her friend handed me her insurance card and ID. I know enough to find her.
Morgan’s gratitude strikes a chord with a very dark and primal part of me that I try hard to conceal from the world. Her eyes hold mine for a heartbeat too long, and in that moment, I know I’m utterly fucked.
“Time to roll,” Jenkins calls. “Dispatch has three calls stacking up.”
I nod. “Copy that.”
But as I step away from Morgan’s bedside, something unfamiliar claws at my chest. I’m used to walking away—from patients, from scenes of my vigilante justice, from emotional attachments of any kind. Clean entry, clean exit. It’s my mantra.
