“Oh, this is ridiculous.”
The grape-sweet scent of cigars drifted past as the mirror swallowed him. I took the mirror from Graham and tucked it into my clutch.
The nurse, broad-shouldered and built like a well-defined, muscular teddy bear, rolled a wheelchair toward us.
“Magdalene Maxwell?” he asked, his smile warm and disarming enough to make me forget where we were.
I almost smiled back. Then one of his locs slipped across his face, and I saw his eyes. Not brown, not green, or any other color that eyes should be—they glowed yellow.
Nuh-uh. That’s not normal.
My pulse ticked hard, drowning out the hum of the car.
I turned to Graham. “What the hell?” I whispered. “His eyes—something’s wrong. I’m not going with him.” My voice cracked, and I hated that I could hear the fear in it.
“Relax,” Graham said. “I called ahead. That’s Bishop. I know him. You’re safe.” He was out of the car before I could argue, circling around to help.
Hearing it didn’t make me feel any better. I tried not to stare, but the guy’s fucking eyes were glowing. How the hell was I supposed to react to that?
“Come on, Magdalene, let’s get you inside.” Bishop tucked the loc back into his ponytail, his voice calm and patient.
“It’s Maggie,” I said, clutching Graham’s suit coat tighter as I tried to stand. The second I put weight on my foot, I dropped back into the bucket seat. “Ow!”
“Spin in your seat and put both feet firmly on the pavement,” Bishop said evenly. “Pivot on the good foot. We’ll get you into the wheelchair.”
Part of me wanted to be pissed with Graham—for making me come in, and for not just carrying me like a normal overprotective boyfriend would.
With a little effort—and cold toes on near-frozen pavement—I hobbled into the chair.
“I’m going to park the car,” Graham said, his hand firm on my shoulder until I met his eyes. “It’s okay. I’ll be right there.”
Next thing I knew, Bishop was rolling me through the ER doors while the low rumble of the Shelby faded toward the parking lot.
The harsh lights and tang of antiseptic cleaner hit me all at once. Last time I’d been here was after Portia’s basement—something I’d rather forget.
Bishop steered me toward the reception desk; the squeak of the wheelchair echoed under the fluorescent lights. “I’ll keep you here with me until Graham gets in,” he said. “You’re already signed in, but it might be a bit.”
The monitor’s light washed over his dark skin, turning it burnished gold. It caught along the planes of his face, amplifying his yellow eyes. Still glowing. Still wrong.
“An SUV full of teenagers went off the bridge at Crescent Cove,” he said quietly.
“Oh god. Is everyone okay?”
“Can’t say much besides no deaths. It’s chaos back there—angry parents, scared kids.” He thumbed over his shoulder to the double doors containing the muted mayhem in back. “Feels like Christmas back home.”
“You’re not from here?” I asked.
“Nah—Chicago.”
“What brings you to Port Grey?” The question came before I could stop it. Those glowing eyes had me too curious not to ask.
“Internship,” he said. “I finished about five years back. Not much waiting for me in Chicago, so I stayed. Now, I’m the one training the interns.” He gave a flat, closed-mouthsmile.
“Nice.”
The outside doors slid open and Graham walked in, looking fine as fuck—as usual. The kind of entrance that turned heads, even in an ER.
“Hey,” I said, giving him a slow once-over while Bishop fastened a wristband to my arm. “I like seeing you all spiffed up.”
