"She said no." My voice is calm, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me. Ten minutes ago, I was at the bar, nursing a bourbon I didn't want, silently cursing Arjun for dragging me to this sensory nightmare of a club. Then I saw her—Mia in a dress that clings to every curve I've been desperately trying to forget,her wild red curls loose around her shoulders, her freckled skin glowing under the pulsing lights.
I'd watched her, helpless to look away, as this asshole approached her. Watched as she tried to maintain distance. Watched as his hands wandered where they had no right to be. And something in me—something primal and possessive that I didn't know existed—snapped.
"Look, it was just a misunderstanding," the guy whines, his expensive cologne mixing with the sour smell of fear-sweat. "We were dancing, that's all."
I force him to turn and face Mia directly, my hand still firm on the back of his neck. "Apologize," I command, the single word carrying enough threat to make him swallow hard. "Properly."
He clears his throat, eyes frantically roaming over Mia’s furious face. "I'm sorry if I came on too strong." The apology is so halfhearted it makes my jaw clench.
"Try again." I dig my thumb slightly deeper into that sensitive nerve cluster. "Like you mean it."
His eyes widen, a flicker of genuine fear replacing the annoyed entitlement. "I'm sorry," he says directly to Mia. "I shouldn't have touched you like that after you asked me to stop. It won't happen again."
Mia's chin lifts slightly, her eyes cold as she gives a single, sharp nod of acknowledgment. Something about the regal way she accepts his apology without offering absolution makes my chest tighten with an emotion I can't, or won't, name.
"We're done here," I tell him, releasing his neck with a small push that sends him stumbling backward. "Leave."
He doesn't need to be told twice. With one last confused glance between us, he disappears into the crowd, probably already looking for his next target. I watch him go, making sure he's truly retreating before turning my full attention to Mia.
And fuck, what a sight she is. That dress—emerald green that makes her eyes look like summer leaves—hugs every curve I've been trying to forget since I stood in her apartment doorway. It stops mid-thigh, revealing legs that seem to go on forever. Her hair cascades around her shoulders in wild curls that my fingers itch to tangle in. She's wearing makeup—not much, just enough to emphasize those remarkable eyes and the full lips currently pressed into a thin line of fury.
"Are you alright?" I ask, having to lean closer to be heard over the pounding bass. The scent of her perfume—something citrusy and floral that I immediately want to taste on her skin—floods my senses.
"I had it handled," she snaps, her voice tight with anger. The flash in her eyes tells me that anger isn't just directed at the handsy asshole who just left, but at me as well.
Unable to help myself, I arch an eyebrow. "Clearly, that's why he had his hands all over you while you were trying to get away."
"I was about three seconds away from breaking his nose when you decided to play white knight," she fires back, taking a step closer so we're almost chest to chest. "I don't need rescuing, Dr. Walker."
The formal title stings, especially here, in this dark, pulsing space so far removed from the sterile hospital corridors where I've been treating her like she's invisible all week. "Sebastian," I correct her. "We're not at work, Mia."
"Oh, now you want me to call you Sebastian?" Her laugh is sharp, cutting through the music. "Let me guess, tomorrow it'll be back to Dr. Walker, and you'll be dismissing everything I say in front of the entire team? No thanks. I'll stick with what I know."
I deserved that, still, I don't back away. Can't back away. Not when she's looking at me like that, all fire and fury and fucking magnificence.
"What are you even doing here?" she demands, gesturing around at the club with a sweep of her arm that nearly collides with a passing dancer. "This doesn't exactly seem like your scene, Dr. Frosty."
"Dr. Frosty?" I repeat, caught between annoyance and reluctant amusement.
"It's what the nurses call you," she informs me, a hint of satisfaction in her tone. "Behind your back, obviously. Though lately they've upgraded it to Dr. Absolute Zero, given how you've been treating certain fellows."
I should be offended. Instead, I fight the urge to smile. Even furious, even hurling well-deserved insults at me, she's captivating. "My friend dragged me here," I answer her original question, nodding vaguely toward where I last saw Arjun chatting up a woman at the bar. "Said I needed to, quote: get laid or get therapy, preferably both."
Her eyes widen slightly at my bluntness, and for a moment I think I see the corner of her mouth twitch upward before she suppresses it. "Your friend sounds smart," she says. "Though I'm not sure this place has therapists on staff."
"Funny." I step closer, not entirely of my own volition. We're already standing too close, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her green irises, close enough that if I leaned down just slightly, my lips would brush against hers. "What about you? This doesn't seem like your scene either."
"Laney's idea," she admits, a flicker of vulnerability crossing her face before she masks it. "She thought it would help me forget about—" She cuts herself off abruptly, cheeks flushing darker beneath her freckles.
"Forget about what?" I press, though I'm pretty sure I know the answer.
"Work," she says firmly. "Forget about work. And it was going great until my boss showed up and started manhandling the locals."
"Your boss," I repeat. "Is that all I am to you, Mia?"
Something shifts in her eyes, a flash of the same heat I've been fighting since the moment I first saw her. "You tell me," she challenges with a lift of her chin. "What am I to you besides an inconvenient fellow who doesn't know her place?"
Before I can formulate an answer that won't reveal too much, a hand claps down on my shoulder.
