Page 4 of Vicious Secrets
As the day wears on, the itch turns into a churning urge, my mind nearly bringing forth the dreaded four-word curse every nurse, doctor, technician, assistant, and housekeeper knows better than even to think.
I refuse to curse the emergency room. Not today, not ever.
As much as I’d love to be busy to distract myself from the shit storm that is my life outside of these hallowed walls, a tiny part of me is thankful for a break from the chaos.
A month from now, I’ll marry the Fedeltà’s presumptive heir.Not for a second did I ever believe I’d ever get tied up with any criminal, let alone the most infamous Underboss of them all.
What the hell do I know about the mafia or being one of their princesses?
Nothing.
I know exhaustion, obnoxious automated systems, and never-ending lines of patients who’ve spent multiple days consuming everything but water.
“Robyn?” a voice crackles from the radio-like badge on my hip. “Can you take care of the sutures in room seven?”
I frown, looking down at the device. Why can’t they do it?
“Sure thing,” I respond.
Concealing the drink with my discarded hoodie, I go about a task so ingrained in me that it’s automatic. Walking into the room with a muttered introduction and sliding the door closed behind me with my foot, I don’t look up at the patient until I’m halfway through setting up the tray table.
The man dressed in an expensive looking—but plain—suit watches me with dark eyes, an unreadable expression on his face. He’s easily a head taller than me and appears carved from pure muscle. The fabric of the rolled-up sleeve of his white button-up is taut around his forearm, the exposed skin covered in tattoos.
I look back at the chart to double-check the man’s name. He sure as hell doesn’t look like a Carter James.
The dark, deep-set eyes follow me as I step back to log into the computer. Every glance at him increases an eerie, foreboding feeling growing inside my gut.
“Can you tell me your last name and date of birth?” I ask, without looking away from the screen.
“James. January thirteen,” he says in a smooth tone.
“Good.”
I hop off the stool, wash my hands and pull on a pair of gloves before moving closer to examine the slash on his arm. He’s lucky; the cut narrowly missed his tattoos.
“And you’re Robyn Hale?”
A stiff chill grabs the back of my neck, forcing my spine to straighten and lifting my head in the process. He asks like he already knows the answer. Which,duh, of course, he does. It’s on my scrubs, and I introduced myself when I walked in. So why does his question bother me?
“Yes,” I say through tight lips.
His eyes narrow, but not in a glare—more like he’s focusing on a better look at me.
I look away, returning to work and settling before the mysterious Carter James. This isn’t the first man to wander through the ER under an alias; he won’t be the last.
I check the numbness of his arm, watching his face for any sign of discomfort. One corner of his lips twitches up, casting the hint of an amused grin on his face.
“You alright?” I ask.
“Fine.”
“Let me know if you feel any pain as I’m—”
He cuts me off. “This is the first time anyone’s numbed me for stitches.”
I can’t help but frown up at him. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I mumble, unsure what else to say.
Refocusing on the wound, I start sewing him up. His skin is delightfully warm for a man with such a cold appearance. All of his visible tattoos are the same shade of black. Either they’re newer, or he takes excellent care of his tattoos.
