Page 35 of Healed By the Grumpy Elf

Lorian

Thelastfilecloseswith a satisfying whomp of paper and I put it down in my file drawer.

This outbreak needs to be gotten under control and fast. Twenty-seven cases of Pixie-Pox confirmed, with another fifteen suspected. Not the worst outbreak I've seen but significant for a town this size.

I rub my eyes, feeling the strain of a fourteen-hour day. The clinic's overhead lights hum faintly, the only sound besides the steady ticking of the wall clock. I look at the time. It’s 6:32 p.m. Mrs.Beckham left half an hour ago, locking the front door behind her after giving me that motherly look that silently commanded me not to stay too late.

I didn't promise anything.

My pen scratches across the notepad as I jot down observations about the efficacy of Maeve's herbal treatments. The ice pops have proven remarkably effective at suppressing the uncontrollable laughter long enough for the children to eat and drink. The data supports their continued use.

I have high hopes the tonic will protect the rest of the unaffected children and bring an end to this outbreak.

Maeve.

Her name in my thoughts sends a jolt through my system even now, two days after I fled her cottage like a coward. Two days of avoiding her, of sending Mrs. Beckham to collect updates on the school cases rather than going myself. Two days of remembering how her lips felt against mine, how her body pressed against me with such perfect alignment it was like we were made to fit together.

Which, of course, we are. This is what it means to find a True Mate.

I shake my head, forcing my attention back to the charts. This is precisely why I need distance. I need to get myself back in control before I can tell her she’s my True Mate. It’s the only rational thing to do. I've spent years cultivating control over every aspect of my life, and in mere weeks, a redheaded nurse with a penchant for chaos has dismantled it all.

A soft thud from the waiting room interrupts my thoughts.

I glance at the clock again. Mrs. Beckham should have locked up upon leaving. Perhaps she forgot and someone wandered in. Orperhaps it's another worried parent bringing in a child with new symptoms.

I rise from my chair, rolling my shoulders to release the tension built up from hours of work. My back protests with a series of small pops. As I approach my office door, something primitive and instinctive raises the fine hairs on my arms.

Something's not right.

I open my door slowly, scanning the dimly lit waiting room. The security lights cast long shadows across the pristine white walls, turning them a muted gray. At first glance, the space appears empty, the chairs neatly arranged, the children's play area tidied for tomorrow's patients.

Reminding me that I lost the battle of wills with Mrs. Beckham. Not that it matters now. Anything to keep the children waiting occupied and content. I see it now.

"Hello?" I call out, my voice echoing slightly in the empty space. "The clinic is closed for the evening."

Movement catches my eye near the reception desk. A large shadow detaches itself from the deeper darkness by the entrance, and my body tenses in automatic response.

Principal Orlin Braggstone emerges into the dim light, his bulk impressive even by troll standards. His gray-green skin looks almost reflective in this lighting, and his teeth gleam dully as he smiles.

"Evening, Dr. Reizenhart," he rumbles, his deep voice filling the small space. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

Every instinct I possess screams danger, though I can't immediately identify why. Braggstone has always been overly familiar but neverthreatening. Yet something in his posture, in the way he's positioned himself between me and the exit, feels deliberately threatening.

Does he not know the strength of an elf? Does he not understand a fight between us is far from fair?

"Principal Braggstone," I acknowledge, keeping my voice neutral as I maintain my position by my office door. "The clinic closes at six. If you require medical attention, I suggest making an appointment for tomorrow."

He chuckles, a sound like distant thunder, and begins circling Mrs. Beckham's desk with casual interest. His thick fingers trail along its surface, inspecting the neat stacks of paperwork, the appointment book, the framed photo of Mrs. Beckham's grandchildren.

"No medical emergency," he says, picking up a pen and twirling it between his fingers. "Just a friendly visit. I’ve been meaning to congratulate you on how quickly you've become indispensable in our little community."

I remain silent, watching him. There's nothing friendly about this visit.

"You and Maeve make quite the team," he continues, setting the pen down with deliberate precision. "Very cozy, the way you two work together."

My jaw tightens involuntarily at his implication, but I keep my expression neutral.

"Maeve is very talented."