Page 19 of Wrecked By a Devil

“It’s just a small cut,” I force myself to smile politely. “I think it should be good after it gets disinfected.”

She nods, listening to my made-up story about how someone tried to mug me and tells me to follow her into one of the rooms. “You can wait here and someone will come to take a look in a few minutes.”

Once she’s gone, I struggle not to lie down on the hospital bed. The pain has gotten worse and I feel the skin around the cut pulsing strongly, as if it has a heart of its own.

“Ugh…” A sigh escapes me when I try to apply pressure.

There is a heavily burnt man in the room next to mine. I focus on him, hoping it will make my own pain more bearable. The rooms in the ER are walled with glass and I can see everything that’s going on outside.

One of the nurses applies something on the man’s almost black arm and he winces. He is heavily sedated and I don’t even want to know what type of pain he is experiencing if he’s still feeling it despite all the pain meds they gave him.

In the other room I see a kid around seven years old. I’m not usually around children so I find it hard to tell their age. The kid has a big scratch on his knee and he’s crying loud enough to make me wish there was an electric saw between us to block out the sound.

“Fuck it,” I pick up my jacket from the bed and jump to my feet, ready to leave, but as soon as I stand, my vision gets blurry and I feel dizzy.

Maybe I can wait a little longer.

That’s when I spot her. Riley. What is she doing here?

She’s treating the little boy and whatever she is saying to him, it makes the kid stop crying. Riley treats his scratch with a big, cheerful smile on her face, all along talking to him about something the boy seems to show a lot of interest in.

When she’s finished, she pulls out a lollipop from her pocket and hands it to the boy. He wraps his little arms around her and then walks out of the room with his mom.

After the that, I watch Riley attend another patient in the ER, showing the same patience and care she did with the little boy. She is full of love while doing it.

“What do we have here?” She walks in holding a clipboard and the moment our eyes meet, she freezes in place. The casual, hospital-grade smile dies on her face. “Hi.”

“Didn’t expect to see me at your second job? I didn’t know you worked in a hospital.” I try to laugh but a sharp pain cuts through my side, cutting me off forcefully. I hiss through my teeth.

“Yes,” she says, her voice a little tighter than before. She sets the clipboard at the foot of the bed, though her eyes don’t leave my face. “But technically, my job at Eden is my second job. This is my main job.”

“Either way,” I slowly straighten myself so she can get a clear look at the damage, hesitating for a fraction of a second before pulling my shirt up. “I’m equally surprised to run into you.”

“Figured that out by the look in your eyes,” she murmurs. She is trying to sound clinical, but she stares a little longer than she is supposed to at my exposed abdomen. Her gaze tracks the line of my ribs right down to where the blood starts.

“Like what you see?” I flexing the muscles just to see her reaction, but the sudden movement pulls at the torn flesh, and a grunt escapes me.

Damn it.

“It looks even better when there's no blood.”

“I bet,” she swallows hard, trying to keep her cool, but a faint, betraying pink starts creeping up her neck. “How did you get this? It’s really nasty.”

“You know how it is,” I don’t look away from her, tracking the rapid flutter of the pulse on her neck, even though she’s doing her best to avoid eye contact. “It’s a dangerous city. Someone tried to mug me.”

She raises an eyebrow, finally looking me directly in the eyes.

Fuck.

The moment her gaze locks with mine, an involuntary image of her dropping her bra to the floor, flashes in front of my eyes. I find myself wondering how she would look wearing nothing underneath that sterile white coat. Just her, her bare skin, and my hands tracing every line of her body.

“So someone attacked you?” Her voice is almost a whisper when she speaks but she’s still doing her best to sound professional. “Because I would need to make a report if this was an assault.”

“I don’t think you want to do that,” my voice goes cold, dropping into that quiet power that usually makes people step back. I don’t leave her enough room to even consider reporting any of this.

For a moment she just stands there in silence, analyzing me without breaking eye contact. She doesn’t even flinch from the threat in my tone. Then she turns around and picks the clipboard back up. I expect her to leave me here and maybe send someone else to treat my wound.

But instead, she writes something down with a sharp click of her pen, sets the clipboard aside, and then steps back into my space.