Cora's first week working with the doctors at the airfield was both overwhelming and fascinating. She felt lightyears behind the Vanaran physicians in medical expertise and technological know-how, but they were welcoming and patient. She threw herself into the work, accepting that she would start as a glorified scrub nurse until she learned enough to perform major procedures and see patients independently.
She felt as she had in the early days of medical school, as if her brain were a sodden sponge, oversaturated with new information but still trying to absorb more. The work was fascinating, but also devastating and draining. This wasn't like school; her patients were real people suffering far more than mere injury or disease. They grappled with grief and loss—for their cherished lives and homeland.
By the end of her fourth day, Cora was exhausted. She looked at the other doctors and wondered how they maintained their strength. She was tempted to ask, but instead gritted her teeth and pushed through the last hour of her shift. About half an hour before the end of the day, Cora found a rare moment of quiet. Only one patient remained, and the head surgeon had ample assistance.
Cora began cleaning her workstation, disinfecting everything she'd touched and wiping down every surface before neatly stowing her supplies. She was scrubbing her hands when a familiar voice sounded. "Do you have time for one last patient?"
She looked up to see her colleague, May, with a kind expression. Cora searched for the patient and a substitute for the sick bay she'd just cleaned. Her eyes landed on May's. "Can I use your workstation?"
"Sure," May agreed. "It's sanitized, but I haven't put everything away yet."
"Who's the patient?" Cora asked, pulling on fresh gloves.
"He requested you by name," May shrugged. "I think he's part of your delegation."
Cora's heart skipped a beat. A moment later, Roger appeared, cradling his left hand. Cora narrowed her eyes, determined not to let her nerves affect her judgment. He stood in the doorway, all masculine charm and alpha dominance—and, as usual, his full attention was on her.
"You know there's an in-house physician at the Palace," she stated coolly. "I'm sure his team can handle whatever ails you."
"But the Palace is so far away, and you don't have any other patients, right?" Roger inquired, a devious glint in his eyes.
"Just because I don't now, doesn't mean an emergency might not arrive at any moment," Cora countered, hands on her hips. "And if my hands are tied with you, who will help them?"
Unfazed, Roger pursed his lips. "One of the other physicians packing away their stations?" he suggested, nodding to the Vanaran doctors.
Cora huffed. "What's wrong with you, anyway?"
Roger presented his hand, which had a large, but certainly non-urgent, splinter embedded in his palm. "I think I'm dying."
Cora glowered. It took considerable built-up frustration for her to lose her temper, but she'd been tormented by him for over a week. True, he hadn't made a move since that confusing night at dinner, but his presence was inescapable. She could always feel when he was near, and often wasn't quick enough to avoid him.
She constantly tried to ignore his gaze and his voice, which always made her pulse race. She was practically looking around corners to avoid him.
Thus, faced with this latest outrage, Cora abandoned her self-preservation skills. "Are you kidding me, Roger? You do realize that people are actually dying here, don't you?" She didn't wait for his answer, furiously ripping off her gloves. "This isn't cute. Do you have any idea what my day has been like?"
His roguish expression softened. "From the looks of it, it's been the sort that means you're in dire need of a laugh," Roger assessed, his mouth quirking. "And a stiff drink—perhaps with a friend who's good at listening."
"And that's supposed to be you?" she snorted. "If that's your example of humor, I'm not interested, and I don't drink."
"I've seen you drink more than once, Cora," Roger corrected, a note of warning in his voice.
"I should have said that I don't drink with you," she amended in a biting tone.
"Oh?" He smirked. "Why not?"
"You're not scared, are you?"
Cora scowled, lifting her chin. "I can't be baited that easily, but I assure you fear isn't the problem."
"Then what is?" Roger pressed, moving closer. "You've said you have no interest in me, so what's the problem? You get to relax, vent, and enjoy a night off—is that so terrible?"
"I don't want to humanize you," she countered fiercely. "If I do, I might forget what a jerk you are."
Roger chuckled, moving closer. "Should I take that to mean I'm growing on you?" he questioned slyly. "I knew the ice cream would work."
"The ice cream was a dirty trick, and you know it," Cora insisted stubbornly, trying to hide her enjoyment. It had been the best ice cream she'd ever tasted, and though she'd only meant to take a bite before throwing it at him, she'd devoured it. "You need to learn to take no for an answer."
Roger emitted a low rumble. "Now, I have to think that a brilliant doctor who spent as many years working among wolves as you did, must know better than to challenge an alpha."
"This is the problem with you wolves," Cora seethed. "A 'no' isn't a challenge or provocation; it's simply an answer."
Roger purred—a sound between a hum and a growl. His eyes glowed amber as he looked down at Cora. "And the problem with you humans is that you fail to realize how much you say with body language and pheromones. I take your 'no' as a challenge because it's meant as one, and I pursue you despite your protests because I can smell your attraction to me."
"I've been attracted to plenty of people I had no intention of sleeping with. Attraction is a reflex, not proof of interest," Cora hissed defensively. "I don't do this. I don't get involved with men who want more than I can give—it's a recipe for disaster."
"And what do you give?" Roger questioned, placing his hands on her hips. "Some hurried one-night stand with a stranger you'll never see again?"
Cora's eyes widened. "How did you know that?"
"An educated guess," Roger flashed his fangs. "Which you just confirmed." His fingers ran up her side, and he enjoyed the sound of her racing heart. "But for the record, I've been the same way ever since Lydia left me. It's not a pattern you begin because it's what you want—you do it because it's safer than risking your heart." He searched her face. "Of course, we know why I chose that path—why did you, Cora?"
"Stop it," Cora ordered sharply. "Stop talking to me this way, stop touching me." Her lip quivered, and Roger sighed, accepting defeat.
He released her slowly. "I'll be here when you're ready to talk, whether it's about your work here, or us," he offered. "Anything you have to say, I always want to listen." He took a pair of tweezers, quickly removing the splinter, and retreated.
Cora stared after him, feeling—for the first time—completely out of her depth. She didn't like it, not one bit.