Laughing awkwardly, Patricia said, "What are you talking about? We can do it with one person's clothes on."
She tried to make light of it, but the way he was looking at her…steady, unblinking, and unreadable made her breath catch. Her heart began to pound, the playful air she had hoped for vanishing beneath the heat rising between them.
He leaned in slightly, voice low and sharp. "Why does it have to be my clothes? It could be yours too, right?"
Her throat tightened. The room suddenly felt smaller, warmer, heavier. Her fingers twitched at her sides as she looked away. He had every legal right to touch her, they were married but that didn't mean she was ready.
"I am a virgin," she blurted out.
The moment the words escaped, she winced, wishing she could pull them back. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she avoided his eyes. 'Why did I just say that?' She screamed inwardly. Why give him that kind of power?
He tilted his head, voice softer now, but no less dangerous. "I am your husband. I am allowed to take your first."
Her breath hitched, chest rising against his as their body beaten in sync. Heat flooded through her body, the proximity too much, too fast.
Her whole body went rigid. His presence was suffocating, intoxicating. She didn't dare meet his eyes. Her fists clenched by her sides, her legs trapped beneath the weight of his body.
"No," she whispered, more firmly this time, struggling to push him back. "Not like this. Please."
He stilled.
Then, slowly, he pulled away with a sigh and rolled off her, returning to his side of the bed.
"If it had been any other man," he said darkly, not looking at her, "you could have been raped. Don't throw yourself at every man you see just because your hands know how to heal."
She sat up, rattled, fixing her shirt as she moved off the bed and put distance between them. She hated how fast her heart was still beating. She hated that part of her, even now, had noticed how cold his skin was against hers.
But what did he mean by throwing herself at every man? When did she ever do that? How was it her fault that the man she was treating with a good intent harbored bad ones?
She began, trying to explain herself, "I was only trying to help…"
"Switch on the AC," he interrupted coldly. "It has a heater."
She froze. Slowly turned. He had a heater the whole time?
Her eyes narrowed. Furious and humiliated, she marched across the room, turned the AC to warm, and stormed out without saying a word.
Once she was gone, Roman opened his eyes. He stared at the ceiling for a moment before turning his head.
There, by the bed, was a handkerchief she left behind. He picked it up, brows drawing together at the embroidery.
'I love you,' it read in delicate cursive. A small A stitched neatly beneath.
Roman stared at it for a long moment. He couldn't imagine her stepmother giving her something so soft. Her father? Never. So… someone else? Does she have a lover?
He set it gently back down, turned over, and closed his eyes.
…
"Good morning, Miss Patricia. I know you must be really hungry, so I woke up early to cook for you. Would you like to be served..."
Before Maria could finish, Patricia had already rushed into the kitchen and plopped into a chair, staring dreamily at her like a child waiting for candy.
Chuckling, Maria wasted no time and served her a generous portion of rice with black soup. Patricia dove in, devouring half the plate in just two minutes. Mid-bite, she paused, suddenly realizing she hadn't told Maria she was hungry. How did she know?
Then it clicked, 'She probably saw the untouched noodles from last night and figured I would be starving by morning.'
As she chewed, her thoughts drifted to Roman. Was he feeling any better?
She turned to Maria. "Is he home?"
"No. Mr. Roman left very early," Maria replied.
Patricia simply nodded, her gaze returning to the food in front of her.
At the hospital, Patricia began her transfer to the emergency ward as planned and followed instructions without hesitation. To her surprise, she felt invigorated. The fast-paced energy, the urgency, it lit something inside her. Despite the flood of injured and near-death patients that came in, she barely felt the exhaustion. Her focus was sharp, her hands steady. By the end of the day, she had become the name on everyone's lips.
"Patricia, could you check on the emergency patient in Ward 5, Row 2?" A colleague asked, her voice pleading as she made puppy eyes. "I really need to go to the bathroom. Thank you!"
Patricia, never one to turn down a request, smiled and nodded. She made her way to Ward 5, scanning the room until she located the second row.
But what she saw didn't scream emergency. A tall, well-built, handsome man sat calmly at the edge of the bed, inspecting his injured elbow. Not exactly what she expected.
"Are you Syres?" She asked, glancing at the file in her hands. When she looked up, their eyes met and for a moment, she froze.
He had piercing blue eyes, the kind that made her forget how to blink.
"Yes, doctor," he said with a charming smile. "I can't believe I get to be treated by someone so beautiful."
His tone was flirtatious, but not sleazy. Unlike John, this one didn't feel like he was undressing her with his eyes. There was something… respectful in the way he looked at her.
Snapping herself out of the daze, she lowered her gaze, set the file on the bed, and stepped closer to examine his injury.
"How long have you had this?" She asked, her eyes focused on his elbow.
"Not long. But I think I am already feeling better with you this close," he said smoothly.
She glanced at him, just for a second, then quickly looked away again.
"You just need to get it cleaned and you will be fine. Nothing serious. You can leave once you are treated," she said, picking up the file and scribbling down notes. "I will call the attending doctor for you."
Then came the question.
"So… Do you have a boyfriend? Or a husband?"