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MIA

ONE MONTH LATER

“I need a gurney here!”

“Where’s the goddamn cart?!”

I rush to the ambulance doors. The guy strapped to the EMTs’ gurney has definitely seen better days.

So has his stomach. Specifically, the giant rebar-shaped hole in it.

“This the hypotensive patient?” I ask.

“Yes, but Dr. Adams said to wait for?—”

I ignore the paramedic and push one microgram of epi.

“Nurse Winters!” Dr. Adams comes thundering through the doors in his pristine white coat. My scrubs are soaked in blood from head to toe, but his clothes, like usual, don’t have a single goddamn spot on them. “I gave specific instructions for this patient!”

I try to bite back my irritation, but I fail. “If we’d waited, he’d be dead,” I hiss through my teeth, making sure the patient doesn’t hear me. The last thing we need is to add an anxiety attack on top of hemorrhagic shock.

“He’s a patient of my OR?—”

“Then get him into your OR!” I snap. “Right now would be good, actually!”

Dr. Adams’s eyes flick between me, the patient, and the EMTs still applying pressure to the wound. I can tell he wants to argue more, because that telltale popping vein on his temple is promising a scolding for the ages.

But he must realize what everyone else in the room has clocked three minutes ago: this guy cannot afford to wait.

“Get him prepped,” he orders his terrified residents with a bossy wave of his gloved hand. “I’ll be waiting in OR 2.”

Then he stalks off.

The residents glance nervously at each other, unsure of what to do. They’re fresh out of med school—probably started today, judging by the lost expression on their faces—but God forbid Adams actually do his job and teach them.

I take a deep breath and take charge. “C’mon,” I tell them, grabbing the gurney on one side. “Help me roll him inside. I’ll show you how to prep him.”

I go as quickly as I can, giving instructions to the young team of doctors, letting them handle the minor stuff and showing them everything else, including how to plug a rebar hole with their fingers to staunch the blood flow.

It’s not the most effective lesson—we’re up against a ticking clock, after all—but by the time we’re heading to the OR, they seem to have regained their composure and remembered their training.

“Thanks,” one of them—a young woman with glasses—exhales as we roll the gurney through the white hallway. Her white coat reads Dr. Park. “Dr. Adams can be a bit…”

“Pain in the ass?” The two guys suppress a snort at my comment. “It’s okay,” I continue. “I know. Best surgeon out there, though, much as it pains me to admit it. Make sure to learn all you can from him.”

“Are you a surgical resident, too?” one of the others—a Dr. Shaan—asks with bright eyes.

“Nope.” I grin. “Nurse practitioner.”

“OR nurse?” the last young doctor asks, with a thick Scottish accent and hope in his eyes. “We could use you in there. Keep Adams in line and the patient breathing.”

“Sorry.” I shrug. “The ER owns my soul. But feel free to shout for me if you ever need help with anything. God knows it’s hard to find your feet in here.”

After I’ve dropped the surgeon puppies back on Adams’s doorstep with the patient, I grab a fresh set of scrubs and head back to the ER.

“Crisis over?” I ask Kallie, noticing much less shouting than before.

“Yeah,” she sighs. “At least until the next impalement. Ever feel like we’re in 1400s Romania?”

“Maybe that’s what the R in ER stands for.”

“And the E?”

“The E stands for Enough Chitchat,” Gwen’s steely voice cuts in, making us jump. “Nurse Kathri, help the patient in Bay D to the Maternity Ward. Nurse Winters, Bay C is all yours.”

“Yes, Gwen,” we answer in glum unison.

Kallie’s patient is already in a wheelchair. She wheels her into the elevator and disappears from Gwen’s all-seeing eyes.

“Hello!” I greet brightly, pulling back the curtain on Bay C. “What seems to be the?—?”

Problem.

The word gets stuck in my throat. Like a splinter, or a rusty piece of rebar.

Because there’s no way, right?

There’s no way he’s here.

“There you are, sweet thing.” Brad’s smile slices his face in half, sharp as the crescent moon. “I’ve been waiting forever.”

It’s been a month since that night.

A month since I’ve hide or hair of Yulian.

A month of my texts getting radio silence or the rare noncommittal answer about how the next event hasn’t been fixed yet, how he’ll let me know if he needs me again.

And a month since Brad saw us.

He looks perfectly healthy in his crisp, cream-colored suit. After all these years, it’s still all he seems to wear: shades of white, blinding enough to mask the darkness lurking beneath.

“Well?” he demands, crossing his legs impatiently. “Aren’t you going to examine me?”

Fucking hell. Even his tone is begging to be punched. “I’ll go get another nurse.”

“No.” He grabs my wrist as I turn, keeping me there. “I want you .”

It roots me to the spot—his touch, the memory of it. The force of his death grip. Any tighter, and the pressure will turn into pain.

But this time, I don’t freeze. This time, an unfamiliar fire keeps my limbs from falling numb. A fire I haven’t felt in a long time.

Rage.

I turn back to Brad, eyes blazing. “Leave,” I spit. “Or I’ll have security throw you out.”

“On what grounds?” His sardonic smile hasn’t wavered for a second. “You don’t have a restraining order. You never asked for one.”

Because I thought I was done with you. “That can be fixed.”

“After five years?” He laughs. “No, sweetie, it can’t. No judge in their right mind would take you seriously.”

“Try me.”

He leans in, voice low and smug. “I’m a patient,” he whispers. “I have every right to be here. So, you can either do your job, or I can report you to your bosses. Bet they’d like an excuse to get rid of you. From what I hear, you’re quite a handful.”

“I do what needs to be done,” I say flatly. “Now, let me go, or I’ll scream.”

“I’ll let you go if you visit me.”

“Fuck off, Brad.” I wipe the sweat from my brow with my free hand. “This isn’t the place for your games!”

“But it’s the place that signs your paychecks.” His grip tightens just a little. A warning: Do not test me. “So do your fucking job, or I’ll make sure no hospital in the country will ever hire you again.”

Pain sears up my arm, but I bite my lip and bear it. Because it’s nothing compared to what I’ve endured in the past—and to his threat.

Brad isn’t the kind of man who bluffs. He’s the kind of man who’ll scorch the earth just to rob you of the feeling of grass under your feet.

And right now, I can’t afford to be burned again.

Because it’s not just about me anymore.

“Fine. You first.”

Pleased as punch, Brad lets me go. “Excellent. You may begin.”

I rub my sore wrist. I can already tell it’ll bruise. Add it to the tab, I guess. “You haven’t told me what’s wrong with you.”

As if wanting to mock me, he lifts his own wrist. “This hurts,” he says with a fake whimper.

I sigh and pick up a fresh pair of gloves. “Let’s see it, then.”

“No.”

“‘No’?”

“No to those.” He nods towards the gloves. “I’m… allergic to latex.”

My eyebrows high-five the ceiling. “Are you now?”

“It’s new.”

“It’s not in your chart.”

“No gloves.” This time, his tone is final. “Or else?—”

“You’ll throw yourself to the floor and scream like a toddler.” Angry, I dump the gloves. “Don’t worry, I got your memo.”

Then I pick up Brad’s wrist.

And my hands start shaking.

Stop, I bark inwardly. Stop that. Don’t let him see.

Don’t let him get to you.

But it’s useless. The memories are too strong. My body’s stuck in fight-or-flight response, waiting for the blow to land. For that hand to escape my hold and just?—

“You’re looking a little pale,” he comments.

“I’m fine.” It’s a lie. “There’s nothing wrong with your wrist.”

He hums, considering it. “Then the pain must be coming from somewhere else.”

Without warning, he grabs my hand and moves it to his crotch.

I snatch it away. My elbow hits the supply cart, toppling it in the process.

Everyone in the room turns to stare at me.

“Nurse Winters?” Gwen asks, half-glaring from behind a stack of patient charts. “Everything alright?”

“Yes,” I lie through gritted teeth. “Sorry. I just—tripped.”

“You should pick those up,” Brad drawls, eyeing the scattered mess of supplies all over the floor of Bay C. “Unless you want someone else to trip over them.”

Hot, burning humiliation courses through me.

Without a choice, I crouch and start picking up everything.

“Not like that,” Brad murmurs, a dark, heated edge to his words. “ Kneel .”

My old defense mechanisms try to kick back into gear. Do as he says. Stay calm, shut up, wait for it to be over.

It always hurts worse when you fight.

But something’s changed. For some reason, those old boundaries that kept me safe back at Montauk are starting to chafe.

Now, my pulse isn’t racing out of fear, but out of fury.

I wonder if it’s because of Yulian.

When he stopped Brad at the wedding, he wasn’t scared. When he faced him again at StarTech, he wasn’t scared, either.

So why should I be?

Because you’re not as strong. Because you’ve been hurt before.

Because you’re hiding his son.

“No need,” I rasp, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. “I’m done.”

Brad’s dark eyes fix on me. Thoughtful, considering. “You’ve changed,” he observes.

“If you say so.”

“I’ve changed, too.”

I bark out a laugh. “Yeah, right.”

“Is that so hard to believe?” His fingers catch a stray lock of hair and start to play with it. “That I’ve become a better person?”

My arms break out in goosebumps. “You just asked me to kneel. That’s not ‘changed.’”

“That’s on you.” I try to move away, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he leans in, smelling it. “You know what you do to me.” He smirks, leading my gaze between his legs, where I see?—

He’s hard.

Disgust floods me. I yank my hair away, not caring that it hurts as a few strands stay caught in his grip like wings ripped off a butterfly. “I’m leaving.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Because I’m not him ?”

He spits out that word like it’s venom. Like Yulian’s nothing but a parasite, feeding on what’s rightfully his.

“No, Brad,” I croak. “It’s because you’re you. ”

“Liar.” He gets up from the stretcher, following me to the front desk. “You’re hiding things from me. But I’ll find out, sweet thing. I’ll find all your dirty little secrets.”

That promise turns my veins to ice.

I don’t remember what happens next. What I write on his chart, what he says as he leaves. All I know is that, moments later, I’m hunched over in the bathroom, dry heaving into the toilet.

I don’t even remember picking up my phone. Dialing the number. Pressing “call.”

But I must have. Because, at some point, a voice cuts through the fog.

His voice.

“… Mia?”