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“Master?” he asked with a smile. My darling boy. I took another breath, but it fucking hurt. It felt like a stab in the chest. “Sorry to disturb, but I can’t reach the extra mixing bowls on top of the cabinet. Could you help me?”
“Of course, love,” I responded automatically, barely recognizing my own voice. All I saw was an escape. “I’ll be right there.”
I rose to my feet and instantly felt like the floor rushed up to swallow me. I swayed at the dizzy spell, and I blinked in an attempt to clear the blurred corners of my vision and instinctively reached out to grab KC’s shoulder. Fucking hell, what was happening?—
I screwed my eyes shut, and the pain blazed through me, centering around my heart. I couldn’t fucking breathe. My entire chest seized up.
“Baby, sit down.” KC’s voice—I couldn’t see him—but I heard the urgency. Fuck. I opened my eyes and tried to swallow.
“Oh my God—Lucian!” Cam cried out.
My hands and arms were all pins and needles, and I repeatedly clenched my fists.
“I’m fine,” I managed to grit out. Nobody believed my lie, least of all Cam. Hurt slashed through his expression. “I…I’m…fuck.” Then I was somehow sitting down in the chair—someone had pushed it closer to KC. Cam dropped to my feet, and the fear in his eyes nearly bowled me over. I couldn’t scare him; I’d promised him I was okay.
But I wasn’t, and he knew it.
I shut my eyes again, and I rubbed at the sharpest pain over my chest.
Panic shot right through me. This couldn’t be it. It fucking couldn’t. I’d just found my happiness with Cam, KC, and Noa. For God’s sake, I was working overtime so I could finally put my family ahead of work.
“I’m gonna call an ambulance,” someone said.
I sucked in shallow breaths, faster and faster, and it was as if the pain chased me. Nothing worked. I couldn’t relax, I couldn’t slow down my breaths, I couldn’t get the motherfucking air into my lungs.
“It’s gonna be okay, Master,” Cam whimpered. “You have to be okay!”
“It’s important you relax, Mr. Leroux. Your blood pressure is still a bit high, but that’s understandable, given the circumstances.”
I released a breath and eyed the nurse as she removed the cuff around my arm. Hopefully, I’d get to put on my own clothes soon. And get the fuck out of here.
I rubbed at the ache in my chest. It was a fucked-up feeling. I still felt two types of pain, just like last night, one sharp and unforgiving, and one dull rush of a discomfort that came and went as it pleased. Lastly, the final remnants of the sedative, clinging to my senses, throwing my worry into a sluggish swamp.
The door to my room opened, and a doctor came in while reading my chart.
“Good morning, Mr. Leroux,” he said.
“Morning.” I cleared my throat. “Any idea when the chest pain will fade?”
He looked up from the chart. “Is the pain similar to what you felt last night?”
I shook my head. “Nowhere near it. Just annoying enough to keep me worried and unsettled.”
He nodded with a dip of his chin, seemingly satisfied, and walked over to me. “I’m gonna have a look. Your blood tests show an increase in inflammatory markers, meaning you have inflammation in your body. Does this hurt?” He pressed his finger against my sternum, and I flinched and shot him a little glare.
“Yes, so please don’t do that again,” I said.
His mouth twitched, and he fucking did it again. He moved his finger across my upper chest, both left and right side, from the center to my armpits, and I immediately put him on Noa’s shit list. What kind of sadist was this doctor?
The nurse left.
“You’ve put too much pressure on your body, Mr. Leroux,” he told me. Then he positioned his stethoscope and went along with his exam. I coughed when he told me to, he preached about resting, he told me about autoimmune responses, inflammation in the tissue and in muscles.
They were gonna send me home with a four-day supply of Ativan, a strong recommendation to take time off work, the “order” to make an appointment with my primary care physician, and: “For the inflammation, take 400 milligrams of ibuprofen and 1000 milligrams of acetaminophen three times a day for a week.”
“So, no diagnosis.” I was finally allowed to get out of the hospital gown, so I removed it and shrugged on my shirt.
“If you want to get specific, you need further examination,” the doc said. “But you’re likely suffering from burnout symptoms, which you should take very seriously. Stress, anxiety, lack of rest and proper sleep, always being on the go—all that goes straight to your heart in the end. High blood pressure, chronic inflammation, and panic attacks are clear warning signs.”
