Page 80 of Theirs to Hunt

We’ll have her.

All of her.

Or nothing at all.

Chapter sixty-seven

Bobbie, Monday 07:30a.m.

It's not even 8 a.m.

and the hospital is already humming a pissed-off beehive.

I drop my coffee on the counter, pull my badge from the pocket of my scrubs, and brace myself for the usual Monday chaos.

But the second I walk into the station, I know something's off.

The buzz isn't just morning bullshit or broken charting software.

It's hushed voices, raised eyebrows, the gossip that's spicy enough to travel two floors without a pager.

"Did you see what they wheeled in Saturday night?" Amber, one of the night shift nurses, says, half-whispering.

"Oh, I saw," another nurse chimes in.

"We've got a new nickname for him. Ken doll."

Laughter.

But it's nervous laughter.

Unsettled.

I raise a brow.

"Okay, I missed something. Who's Ken?"

Amber leans in, eyes wide and gleaming.

"Guy came in after midnight with a severed penis. Clean cut. No weapon found. He was dumped outside the club on Bourbon Street someone gift-wrapped him."

My stomach drops. I run my hands briskly up and down my arms to ward off the chill that just erupted.

"What did he look like?" I ask, already knowing I don't want the answer.

Amber scrolls through the intake notes on her phone she's reading the morning news.

"White male. Early 30s. Muscular build. Neck tattoo of a dagger. Said he couldn't remember anything, but he had club stamps all over his hands." I don't even realize I'm backing away from the nurses' station until I hit the hallway wall.

My hands shake as I pull out my phone.

Why didn't you tell me that bastard grinding on me at the club is now dickless.

...wait what???

Bourbon Street. Guy with dagger neck tattoo. Came into my ER missing his favorite organ. They're calling him Ken! You cannot make this shit up.

HOLY SHIT. Are you serious? Like… confirmed??