Amelia's eyes fluttered open at the insistent buzz of her alarm—5:00 a.m. The first workday after her "vacation" loomed like a shadow she couldn't outrun. Sunlight hadn't fully breached the horizon yet, casting her apartment in that hazy pre-dawn glow, but her body clock was merciless. No more hiding under duvets, replaying the heat of Jake's hands or the wild thrum of his bike. Time to slip back into the white coat, the one armor that never failed her.
She padded to the door in her silk sleep shorts—his oversized tee from two nights ago still clinging to her curves like a guilty secret, the fabric whispering against her thighs with every step. Her hand hovered on the knob, a flicker of dread twisting her gut. Like clockwork since that sensual encounter, it was there: a single black rose. No note. No fingerprints. Just the faint, intoxicating trail of leather and smoke, curling into her nostrils like a lover's breath. It led nowhere—poof, gone with the wind. Cops? Useless. Restraining order? Laughable against a ghost who ruled the shadows.
Shouldn't keep it, she thought, fingers brushing the thornless stem. But she did. Scooping it up, she carried it inside to the spare vase on her windowsill—a sleek glass cylinder, empty save for four identical blooms. She slid the new one in, the petals brushing the others.
"Five now. What are you counting toward, Jake? "
The question hung, unanswered, stirring a unwelcome warmth low in her belly—fear laced with that traitorous pull, the memory of his body flush against hers, hard and unyielding.
By 6:00 a.m., she was armored up: hair twisted into a no-nonsense bun that tamed her brown waves, crisp white uniform hugging her frame just enough to feel professional, not provocative. Over it, her surgeon's coat—starched, authoritative, a shield against the world's stares. She double-locked the door, the click echoing her resolve.
"Not that it'd stop him", a snarky voice in her head mocked. Gang leaders don't knock; they are criminals.
Down in the underground garage, her orange Audi waited, gleaming under the fluorescent morning shine. No dents, no bullet scars—just flawless curves and fresh tires, courtesy of his "pack of wolves."
She tapped the fob, and the car rolled back with a soft whoosh—her custom hack for lazy mornings, turning parallel parking into child's play. Sliding into the leather seat, she ran a hand over the dash, almost appreciative. Impressive work, she admitted silently. But don't get soft, Amelia. He's still the guy who turned your life into a high-stakes thriller.
The drive to Mercy Hospital blurred in the early rush: Higher Heights awakening with its symphony of honks and coffee steam, skyscrapers clawing at the pinkening sky. The hospital rose like a crystal monolith—ten floors of glass and steel, reflecting the city's pulse. Amelia parked in her reserved spot, badge swinging as she strode through the lobby. Pleasantries flowed like water: "Morning, Dr. Jones!" from the security guard; "Congrats again on the medal!" from a cluster of nurses by the elevators. Her tenth open-heart success had turned her into a mini-celebrity, faces lighting up like she'd handed out free lattes. She nodded, smiled—polite diplomacy in action—but inside, the spotlight chafed." I'm a surgeon, not a show pony."
Ground floor cleared, she jabbed the button for the top level: the "Surgeon's Abode," as the staff teasingly called it.
Not that it was special or anything, no. It was just a place where surgery Were carried out, where Egos emanating from other nurses were enough to kill a low esteemed individual . Her office was a sanctuary—minimalist chic with anatomical charts on the walls, a wide oak desk piled with journals, and a plush chair that hugged like an old friend. She bolted inside, door clicking shut behind her, and leaned against it, breath coming in shallow bursts. Heart pounding like a bass drop, chest tight—anxiety?She wasn't built for this fame game, the eyes tracking her every move. It clawed at her focus, threatening to dull the edge that made her elite. No, she thought, shaking it off.
"Breathe. You've cut open chests; you can handle handshakes."
She fished her stainless water bottle from her satchel—chilled, lemon-infused—and took a long pull, the cool rush grounding her. Fate accepted: back to the grind, where she thrived.
Schedule? Blank slate today—no emergencies, no consults. Perfect. Curling into the chair, feet tucked under, she fired up her tablet, letting the internet's white noise wash over her. BuzzFeed quizzes? Tempting. Headlines scrolling: stock dips, celeb scandals, the usual chaos.
Then—bam. Her thumb froze mid-swipe. There he was: Jake, wrists cuffed in cold steel, flanked by a half-dozen rough-looking guys in a grainy arrest photo splashed across the screen. Crimson bold letters screamed the headline: GANG SUSPECTED FOR SATURDAY NIGHT SHOOTING ARRESTED. Details trickled in: Shadow Wolves rounded up after a tip-off, weapons haul, the works. Her pulse skipped—not from fear, but something sharper. Laughter bubbled up, unbidden, exploding into a full-body wheeze that left her throat raw and eyes watering. She doubled over, clutching her sides, the sound echoing off the sterile walls.
"Big and dangerous, my ass."The gang leader, felled by lit cops? Handcuffs on those inked wrists, that smirk wiped by mugshot lights?
"I guess I don't have to worry about the black roses anymore," she murmured, wiping tears of amusement, a malicious grin splitting her face. Relief flooded her—sweet, vindicating. No more shadows at her door. No more leather-scented ghosts. She could breathe, file it all under "bad dream," and reclaim her orderly world. "Checkmate, wolf boy."
***
Work blurred into a merciful haze: a quick consult here, chart reviews there, the rhythm pulling her under like anesthesia. By 7:00 p.m., the sun dipped low, painting the city in bruised oranges as she punched out. The drive home felt lighter, radio humming some upbeat pop track she half-sang along to. Keys jingled in her pocket, door unlocking with a satisfying beep. Sanctuary awaited: a hot shower, takeout Thai, maybe binge a med-drama for irony's sake.
She flicked on the hall light, kicking off her flats—then froze. The apartment was a void of shadows, the sitting room swallowed in gloom despite the open blinds. And there, lounging on her cream leather sofa like a king on a throne, was Jake. Legs sprawled wide, one arm draped over the back, the other nursing a tumbler of what smelled like her top-shelf whiskey. His leather jacket hung loose, unbuttoned just enough to tease the wolf tattoo curling over his pec, dark hair tousled as if he'd run fingers through it a hundred times. Those hazel-flecked eyes—lazy, predatory—locked on her from the dimness, lips curving into that damn smirk.
"Oh, hello, Rainbow," he drawled, voice a low rumble that slithered under her skin, thick with that teasing heat. He didn't rise, didn't need to—his presence filled the room, heavy as smoke, coiling around her like invisible chains.
Terror ripped through her, sharp and electric, knees locking as her bag slipped from numb fingers, thudding to the floor.
"How?"The arrest photo burned in her mind—cuffs, chaos, cops swarming. But here he was, free and feral, sipping her liquor like he'd never left. The black roses? Child's play. This? This was invasion, intimate and inevitable. Her pulse thundered, a traitorous mix of dread and that forbidden spark igniting low—his gaze raking her from bun to heels, lingering on the way her coat hugged her hips. *Run? Scream? Or...* No. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she whispered, voice cracking like thin ice, but her feet wouldn't move. The door hung ajar behind her, escape a breath away—yet his eyes held her, promising storms she wasn't sure she wanted to flee. Outside, a car's engine purred too close, too deliberate. Was it his wolves? Or the cops, closing in? The night thickened, thorns blooming fresh, and Amelia realized: she was in for a ride.