triage (Patreon)

Author's note: Hey everyone! I received an anonymous request on Tumblr earlier this week that I just couldn't get out of my head. It was angst, it was dark, and it was exactly the kind of "protective Harry" vibe I love writing. I sat down to draft it and, well... I ended up devouring the whole thing in one sitting. Because you guys are the reason I get to do this, I wanted to give you exclusive early access. I will be posting this on Tumblr for the public in a few days, but I wanted my Patrons to be the first to meet this version of Harry.

Warning: This story contains mature themes including graphic smut, depictions of physical violence/aftermath of domestic abuse, and dark/possessive behavior.

word count: 7.5k

The clock on the wall of Trauma Room Three hummed with a low and electric buzz that seemed to drill directly into Y/N’s skull.

It was 3:17 AM.

She had been on her feet for twenty hours. The coffee she had consumed at midnight had long since worn off, leaving behind a jittery exhaustion that made her hands feel heavy and her eyelids feel like sandpaper.

The emergency room was in a lull. The drunk from the pub brawl had been stitched up and sent home. The kid with the fever had been admitted to pediatrics. For a brief and miraculous moment, there was silence.

Y/N leaned back against the counter and closed her eyes. She just needed five minutes.

The double doors of the ambulance bay burst open.

The silence shattered.

"We need a doctor!" a deep voice bellowed.

Y/N snapped her eyes open and pushed off the counter. Her body moved on autopilot, drilled by four years of medical school and six months of brutal residency. She stepped into the hallway.

Three men were stumbling toward the trauma bay. The two on the outside were massive, built like brick walls in cheap leather jackets. The man in the middle was different.

He was wearing a black suit that had probably cost more than Y/N’s entire student loan debt. His white shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and the fabric was soaked through with a dark and spreading stain of red.

He wasn't stumbling because he was drunk. He was stumbling because he was losing blood.

The head nurse, Gwen, took one look at the trio and froze. She saw the tattoos on the neck of the man on the left. She saw the suspicious bulge under the jacket of the man on the right. She backed away, her face pale.

"I am not touching them," Gwen whispered. "That is gang violence. I am calling security."

"No," Y/N said. Her voice was calm. It was the numbness of exhaustion. "If you call security, they will start shooting. Just get me a suture kit and two units of O negative."

She walked forward. She didn't look at the bodyguards. She looked straight at the man in the middle.

She didn't know his name, but she knew his type. Dangerous. Wealthy. And currently dying in her hallway.

"Room Three," she commanded, pointing to the open door. "Get him on the bed."

The bodyguards hesitated. They looked at the man in the suit for permission.

The stranger lifted his head. His skin was grey and clammy, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. But his eyes were green and startlingly alert. He gave a sharp nod.

They hauled him into the room and deposited him on the gurney.

"Out," Y/N said to the guards.

"We stay with him," one of them growled.

"You stay and you are in my way," Y/N said. She snapped on a pair of blue latex gloves. "He has a laceration to the abdomen and he is losing blood pressure. Do you want him to bleed out because you were blocking my light? Get. Out."

The guard bristled, but the man on the bed made a low sound in his throat. A command. The guards immediately backed down and retreated to the hallway, crossing their arms over their chests.

Y/N kicked the door shut.

She turned to her patient.

"I need to cut the shirt," she said.

He didn't speak. He just watched her. He watched her pick up the heavy trauma shears. He watched her slice through the expensive silk of his shirt, exposing his chest and stomach.

Y/N didn't flinch at the sight of the blood. She didn't flinch at the sight of the ink that covered his skin, swallows and crosses and darker things she didn't have time to decipher. She focused on the wound.

It was a knife wound. Clean, deep, just below the ribs. It had missed the major organs, but it needed stitches immediately.

"This is going to hurt," she warned. "I can't give you heavy painkillers because your blood pressure is too low. I have to use a local anesthetic."

"Do it," he rasped.

His voice was like gravel.

Y/N worked quickly. She injected the lidocaine around the wound. She cleaned the area with iodine, the metallic smell of blood mixing with the sharp scent of antiseptic. Through it all, he didn't make a sound. He didn't groan. He didn't grip the rails of the bed.

He just watched her.

His gaze was heavy. It felt physical, like a touch against her skin. Most patients looked at the ceiling or closed their eyes when she stitched them up. This man was watching her face. He was studying the dark circles under her eyes and the way she bit her lip as she threaded the needle.

"You are shaking," he observed.

Y/N paused. Her hand was steady on the needle, but her body was vibrating with fatigue.

"I have been here since six yesterday morning," she murmured, tying off the first stitch. "I am fine. You worry about yourself."

She finished the row of stitches. She cleaned the skin one last time and taped a sterile gauze pad over the wound.

"You lost a lot of blood," she said, peeling off her bloody gloves and tossing them in the bin. "You should stay for observation."

"Can't," he said. He started to sit up.

"Hey," she said sharply. She stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder to push him back. "Stop. You will rip them open."

His skin was burning hot under her palm.

She frowned. She moved her hand from his shoulder to his forehead. She brushed back the damp curls of hair that were sticking to his skin. It was an instinct. A doctor's habit.

"You are burning up," she whispered. Her voice softened. "You might have an infection starting."

The stranger went still.

He had been stabbed, shot, and beaten in his life. He was used to hands that hurt him. He was used to hands that took things from him.

He was not used to this.

Her hand was cool against his fevered skin. Her fingers were gentle as she swept his hair back. She wasn't looking at him with fear or disgust. She was looking at him with a tired, genuine concern.

For a heartbeat, the air in the room felt too thick to breathe.

Buzz.

The sound of a phone vibrating against the metal counter broke the spell.

Y/N pulled her hand away. She blinked, stepping back to check the monitors.

"Your vitals are stabilizing," she said, her voice returning to its professional tone. "I will write you a script for antibiotics. You need to take them."

She walked over to the counter where her phone was lighting up.

The man watched her. From his angle on the bed, he could see the screen.

Mark: Where are you?

Mark: I am locked out. You didn't leave the key under the mat.

Mark: I guess asking you to do one simple thing right is too much.

He read the messages. He saw Y/N read them.

He saw her shoulders slump. He saw the light go out of her eyes. The doctor who had fearlessly ordered two armed hitmen out of her room suddenly looked small and defeated.

She didn't type a reply. She just swiped the notification away and let out a long, shaky sigh. She rubbed her temple with her thumb.

The stranger narrowed his eyes.

He looked at the blood on his own chest. He looked at the woman who had just sewn him back together while standing on feet that probably felt like they were bleeding.

She saved people. That was her job.

But looking at the exhaustion radiating off her, and the cruelty glowing on her phone screen, he realized something.

No one was saving her.

"Here," Y/N said, turning back around with a slip of paper. She avoided his eyes now. She looked embarrassed, like she knew he had seen the message. "Take this twice a day. Keep the wound dry."

He took the paper. His fingers brushed hers.

"Thank you," he said.

He wasn't thanking her for the stitches.

"Just doing my job," she mumbled. "There is a back exit down the hall. Use that one. The cameras don't work."

The man slid off the bed. He winced as his side pulled, but he stood tall. He buttoned his ruined jacket over his chest.

He paused at the door. He looked at her one last time. She was already turning away, picking up a clipboard, ready to start the next task, ready to go home to the man who called her useless.

She had left a mark on him.

He decided, right then and there, that he was going to return the favor.

Two weeks passed.

The memory of the man in the black suit should have faded. Trauma patients came and went like ghosts in the ER. They were faces and wounds that blurred into a singular stream of misery.

But Y/N could not forget him.

It wasn't just the intense green of his eyes or the way he had looked at her while she sewed his skin back together. It was the feeling that had settled over her life since that night.

A feeling of being watched.

It started small. She would be walking to her car in the hospital parking garage at midnight and the hair on the back of her neck would stand up. She would turn around expecting to see a shadow or a security guard but the concrete cavern would be empty.

Then came the coffee.

It was a Tuesday morning. She was standing in line at the shop across from the hospital. She was counting the change in her wallet and realizing she was short for a latte. She resigned herself to a black coffee.

"I will have a large Americano," she told the barista.

"The gentleman already paid for it," the barista said. She slid a large cup across the counter. "And he added a blueberry muffin."

Y/N frowned. "What gentleman?"

"He just left. Tall. Long coat."

Y/N grabbed the cup and ran to the door. She pushed it open and scanned the busy London street.

She saw nothing but rain and taxis.

But parked at the curb a block away was a black SUV with tinted windows. As she watched it the engine rumbled to life and the car pulled smoothly into traffic.

She stood on the wet pavement holding the warm cup. She felt a shiver go down her spine. It wasn't fear exactly. It was something heavier. It was the distinct sensation of being hunted.

"Come on Y/N move it!"

Mark’s voice snapped her back to reality.

It was Friday night. The one night she had managed to trade shifts so she could have dinner with him. They were at a restaurant he had chosen. It was loud and crowded and the food was mediocre.

"I am coming," she said. She hurried to catch up with him as he pushed through the door without holding it for her.

He sat down at the table and immediately pulled out his phone.

"Did you pick up my suit?" he asked without looking up.

"I didn't have time," Y/N said. She sat down and rubbed her aching temples. "I had a double trauma shift. I barely had time to shower."

Mark scoffed. He finally looked at her. His eyes swept over her face with a critical sneer.

"You always have an excuse," he said. "And you look exhausted. It is embarrassing Y/N. I wanted to go to the club later but there is no point taking you. You will just yawn in the corner."

"I save lives Mark," she said quietly. "I am sorry if that is boring for you."

"It isn't boring," he snapped. "It is inconvenient. I have needs too you know."

He went back to his phone.

Y/N looked out the window. Across the street, parked in the shadow of an alley, was the black SUV.

She stared at it.

For a moment she wished she was in that car. She wished she was anywhere but here sitting across from a man who made her feel like a burden.

The SUV sat there like a silent guardian. Or a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

The breaking point came three days later.

It was raining hard. A torrential London downpour that battered against the glass of the high rise apartment building.

Y/N unlocked the door to unit 402. It was a beautiful apartment. It had floor to ceiling windows and modern art and Italian furniture. It was the perfect home for a successful doctor and her finance boyfriend.

It was also a prison.

She stepped inside. The air was cold. Mark liked to keep the thermostat low because he ran hot.

"You are late."

Mark was sitting on the white leather sofa. He was wearing a suit. A glass of scotch sat on a coaster on the glass coffee table.

"I had a patient code," Y/N said. She dropped her heavy bag on the bench. "I couldn't leave."

"We had reservations," Mark said. He didn't look at her. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "I looked like an idiot sitting there alone for twenty minutes before I had to cancel."

"I sent you a text," Y/N said. She walked into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. Her hands were shaking. "I told you I wasn't going to make it."

"Your texts are not enough!"

Mark stood up. He threw his glass.

It shattered against the wall near her head. Shards of crystal and expensive scotch rained down on the pristine countertop.

Y/N flinched but she didn't back down. She was too tired for this. She was done.

"Stop it," she snapped. She turned to face him. "Stop acting like a child Mark. I am a surgeon. I save lives. If I have to stay late to keep a twelve year old boy from dying then I am going to stay late. I don't care about your dinner reservations."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Mark stared at her. His face went dangerously blank.

"What did you say?" he whispered.

"I said I don't care," Y/N said. Her voice rose. The anger she had been suppressing for months finally bubbled over. "I am sick of this. I pay half the mortgage on this place. I work myself to the bone. And I come home to you throwing temper tantrums because I didn't look pretty on your arm at a restaurant. I am done."

She turned to walk toward the bedroom. "I am sleeping in the guest room."

"You aren't going anywhere."

Mark moved fast.

He grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. Before she could react he pulled his fist back.

Crack.

His knuckles connected hard with her cheekbone.

Lights exploded behind Y/N’s eyelids. The force of the punch knocked her off her feet. She crashed onto the hardwood floor.

"You bitch," Mark spat. "You think you are better than me? You think because you have ‘Dr.’ in front of your name you can talk to me like that?"

Y/N gasped for air. She tried to scramble backward but Mark was on her.

He kicked her.

His shoe slammed into her ribs. The breath left her lungs in a pained wheeze. It felt like something cracked.

"Please," she choked out. She curled into a ball to protect her stomach. "Mark stop."

"I am teaching you a lesson," Mark growled. He kicked her again. This time in the thigh. "You want to act like a man I will treat you like one."

He reached down and grabbed a fistful of her hair. He hauled her up. Y/N cried out as her scalp burned. Her vision was swimming. Her face felt hot and swollen.

"No! Let go!" she screamed. She clawed at his hand but his grip was iron.

He dragged her toward the door. Her feet scrambled uselessly against the polished floor.

"You want to leave?" Mark yelled. He opened the heavy door and shoved her with all his strength.

Y/N flew out onto the hallway carpet. She landed hard on her hands and knees.

"Go sleep at the hospital," Mark sneered. He looked at the blood trickling from her lip. He looked at the way she was clutching her ribs. He didn't look sorry. He looked satisfied. "And don't come back until you learn some respect."

He slammed the door.

The lock clicked.

Y/N collapsed against the wall. Her cheek was throbbing with a pulse of its own. Her ribs felt like fire every time she took a breath. She tasted copper in her mouth.

She couldn't stay here. The neighbors would see. The doorman would see.

She pushed herself up. Every movement was agony. She limped to the elevator. She rode it down to the lobby and kept her head down so the concierge wouldn't see her swollen eye or the blood on her chin.

She pushed through the revolving doors and out into the night.

The rain hit her instantly. It soaked through her thin scrubs and stung the open cut on her lip.

She walked to the curb. She hugged herself trying to keep her teeth from chattering. She had nowhere to go. She had no phone. She had no money.

She was a successful doctor living in one of the best buildings in London and she was standing on the street like a beggar.

She was crying but the rain washed the tears away. She was broken.

Headlights cut through the rain.

A familiar black SUV turned the corner. It didn't drive past. It slowed down. It prowled toward her like a shark in dark water.

It pulled up to the curb right in front of her.

The back door opened.

A man stepped out.

He wasn't wearing a coat. He stood in the pouring rain in his expensive suit and he didn't even blink.

He walked around the car. He stopped in front of her.

The Stranger.

He looked at her wet hair. He looked at her shaking hands.

Then he looked at the damage.

He saw the purple swelling overtaking her left eye. He saw the blood dripping from her split lip. He saw the way she was hunched over protecting her ribs.

The change in him was terrifying.

The stillness of a predator vanished. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. The veins in his neck stood out. A look of pure lethal violence washed over his face. It wasn't just anger. It was a promise of death.

He looked up at her building. He looked at the balcony of the apartment she had just been thrown out of.

"Who?" he demanded.

His voice was a low growl that vibrated in her chest. It was the sound of a monster waking up.

"I..." Y/N couldn't speak. Her legs gave out.

She started to fall.

He caught her.

He didn't let her hit the ground. His arms went around her instantly. He was solid and warm and he held her like she was made of glass.

"I have you," he whispered into her hair. His voice was shaking with rage. "I have you."

He scooped her up into his arms. He carried her to the car and set her gently in the leather seat.

He didn't get in immediately.

He stood by the open door. He looked up at the apartment window one last time. He pulled a phone from his pocket and dialed a number.

"Apartment 402," he said into the phone. His voice was terrifyingly calm.

He paused.

"Handle it."

He hung up.

He didn't look back. He got into the car and closed the door blocking out the rain and the world.

The drive was a blur of rain smeared neon lights and the rhythmic hum of tires on wet asphalt.

Y/N drifted in and out of awareness. The adrenaline that had fueled her flight from the apartment had crashed leaving behind a bone deep ache. Every bump in the road sent a jolt of fire through her ribs.

She was vaguely aware of the man beside her.

He was on the phone again but his voice was low. He was speaking a language she didn't recognize. Russian maybe? Or Italian? It sounded dangerous. It sounded like commands being barked into the void.

But his hand was on her knee.

His thumb was rubbing back and forth in a steady soothing rhythm. It was a tether keeping her from floating away into the pain.

She stared at his hand. There were scars on his knuckles. He was a violent man. She knew that. She had stitched up the proof of it herself. Logic told her she should be terrified. She was in a car with a stranger who could probably kill a man with a pen.

But logic was quiet tonight. Instinct was louder.

She spent her life in the ER reading people. She knew the difference between the violence of a bully like Mark and the violence of a protector. Mark hurt people to feel big. This man hurt people to keep his world in order.

Mark had thrown her out. This man had caught her.

The car stopped.

"We are here," he said.

The door opened. Before Y/N could even attempt to move he was there. He unbuckled her seatbelt. He scooped her up again effortlessly lifting her as if she weighed nothing more than a bird.

"Put me down," she mumbled into his shirt. "I am heavy."

"You are lighter than my conscience," he muttered. "And that is not saying much."

"I can walk," she argued weakly. "I am a doctor. I know my limits."

"You just collapsed on the pavement," he pointed out. He walked toward a private elevator.

"I didn't collapse," Y/N corrected him. She rested her cheek against the expensive wool of his suit. "I had a syncopal episode due to trauma."

He looked down at her. A faint amusement curled the corner of his mouth.

"Fancy word for fainting," he said.

"It is a medical term," she grumbled. "And you are stubborn."

"I have been told worse," he said.

The elevator opened directly into an apartment that made Mark’s place look like a dormitory. It was vast. The floors were dark polished wood. The walls were glass overlooking the entire city of London. It smelled of expensive leather and oud.

It felt like a fortress. For the first time in hours Y/N felt her muscles unclench. She was safe here.

He carried her straight down a hallway and into a master bathroom that was larger than her entire kitchen. He set her down gently on the marble vanity counter.

"Stay," he commanded.

He turned on the faucet. Warm water steamed into the basin. He grabbed a plush white washcloth.

Y/N watched him. Her mind was finally catching up to reality.

She was in a penthouse. She was hurt. And she was being tended to by a man she barely knew.

"I don't even know your name," she whispered. The realization made her shiver more than the cold wet scrubs. "You know where I live. You know where I work. You are currently taking off my shoes. And I don't know who you are."

The man paused. He set her wet sneaker on the floor. He stood up and looked her in the eye.

"Does it matter?" he asked quietly.

"It should," Y/N said. "My mother told me never to get in cars with strangers."

"Your mother was a smart woman," he agreed. "But I am not a stranger. I am the man whose life you saved. And I am the man who is going to make sure no one ever touches you again."

"That is very dramatic," she said softly.

"I am a dramatic man," he replied. "Harry."

Y/N blinked. "What?"

"My name," he said. He dipped the cloth in the warm water. "It is Harry."

"Harry," she tested the word. She frowned slightly. "You don't look like a Harry."

He raised an eyebrow. He stepped closer moving between her knees. "No? What do I look like?"

"Trouble," she said.

A dark smirk touched his lips. It was the first genuine smile she had seen on him.

"I am that too," he admitted. "Now hold still."

He lifted the cloth to her face.

Y/N flinched. Instinct took over. She expected pain. She expected a slap like the one Mark had given her.

Harry froze.

The smirk vanished instantly. A flicker of pure pain crossed his eyes. He looked at the way she had recoiled from his touch.

"Look at me," he murmured.

Y/N forced herself to look up.

"I am not him," he said. His voice was rough with suppressed emotion. "I will never hurt you. I would cut off my own hands before I laid a finger on you in anger. Do you understand?"

Y/N looked at him. She saw the truth in his green eyes. It was absolute.

"I know," she whispered. "I trust you."

"Good."

He dabbed the cloth gently against the cut on her lip. He was incredibly gentle. He treated her like she was made of porcelain.

He finished cleaning her face. He tossed the cloth into the sink.

His eyes dropped to her chest. To the way she was holding her arm against her ribs.

"I need to check your ribs," Harry said. His voice dropped an octave. It became darker. "I need to take off your top."

Y/N swallowed hard. The banter died in her throat.

"Okay," she said.

He didn't rush. He reached out and took the hem of her scrub top. His knuckles grazed the skin of her stomach. The contact sent a shockwave of heat through her.

He lifted the shirt.

Y/N raised her arms wincing slightly. He pulled the fabric over her head and tossed it to the floor.

Harry hissed in a breath.

Y/N looked down.

A dark ugly bruise was already blooming across her left side. It was a perfect imprint of Mark’s shoe.

Harry stared at it. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek. The playfulness was gone. The monster was back. He reached out and traced the edge of the bruise with his fingertips. His touch was feather light.

"A fetal error. He put his hands on you," Harry murmured, his eyes dark and heavy as they tracked the purple mark. "He might as well have put a gun to his own head."

"Harry," she whispered.

He looked up. His eyes locked with hers. The pupils were blown wide swallowing the green.

"Are you broken?" he asked. "You are the doctor. Tell me. Do we need to go to the hospital?"

Y/N took a shallow breath. It hurt but it was bearable.

"No," she said. "Just bruised. Nothing is displaced. I just need... rest."

"Rest," Harry repeated.

He didn't move away. He stayed right there between her legs. His hands moved from her ribs to her waist. His thumbs pressed into her skin.

The air in the room shifted. It went from clinical to charged.

Y/N looked at him.

Her mind was screaming at her. This is insane, it whispered. You don't know him. He is a criminal. He has been stalking you.

She thought about the last five years. She thought about Mark. Mark was safe. Mark worked in an office. Mark had a pension plan and a nice car and he had asked her father for permission to date her. Mark was everything a woman was supposed to want.

And Mark had beaten her black and blue and thrown her into the rain.

She looked at Harry. He was danger personified. He had blood on his hands and secrets in his eyes.

But his hands on her waist were gentle. His eyes were burning with a protective rage that made her feel more cherished in five minutes than Mark had made her feel in five years.

Safety was an illusion. The "right" choice had almost destroyed her. Maybe it was time to make the wrong choice.

"I don't want to rest," Y/N admitted. Her voice was barely a whisper.

Harry went still. He read the conflict in her eyes. He saw the moment she decided to jump off the cliff.

"No?" Harry asked. He leaned in. His nose brushed against her jawline. "What do you want?"

"I want to forget," she said. She reached out and gripped the lapels of his suit jacket. "I want to stop thinking. I want to be with someone who actually sees me."

Harry’s hands tightened on her waist. He pulled her flush against him.

"I see you," he growled against her neck. "I have seen nothing else for two weeks."

He kissed the sensitive spot behind her ear.

"Let me take care of you," he murmured against her skin. "Let me show you how you are supposed to be touched."

Harry did not rush.

He stepped between her knees as she sat on the marble counter. The air in the bathroom was heavy with steam and the scent of expensive soap but underneath there was lust.

He reached behind her. His fingers found the clasp of her bra. With a flick of his wrist the hooks gave way.

He pulled the straps down her arms. The lace fell away.

Harry stopped breathing.

He just looked at her.

Her breasts spilled free pale and heavy against her chest. They were full and incredibly round the soft curves stark white against the angry purple bruising on her ribs. Her nipples were already tight peaking into hard points from the cool air.

"Christ," Harry breathed. ”All night I imagined this. How they’d feel. How they’d taste.”

He reached out.

He cupped them in his palms. He didn't just hold them. He weighed them. He tested the heaviness of the flesh in his hands letting them spill over his fingers.

"Perfect," he murmured. His voice was thick. "You are perfect."

The praise, raw and unfiltered, washed over her, making her wetter, hotter. “For you,” she echoed, the words tumbling out.

He ran his thumbs over the soft skin. The contrast was striking. His hands were large and scarred. Her skin was creamy and delicate. It looked like a corruption. It looked like he was ruining her just by touching her.

He squeezed gently kneading the soft mounds.

"I bet he never took the time to just look at you." Harry whispered. He looked up meeting her eyes. His gaze was dark and dangerous.

Y/N swallowed hard. Her breath hitched as his thumbs grazed her nipples sending a jolt of electricity straight to her core.

"No," she whispered.

"I bet he rushed," Harry growled. He circled her nipples teasing them until she arched her back. "I bet he treated these like they were just there for his convenience. Like he was entitled to them.”

“That’s right. My good girl” He lowered his head. A sharp cry tore from her throat. His tongue lashed the rigid peak, then soothed it with broad, wet strokes. His other hand kneaded her other breast, his fingers plucking and rolling the nipple until she was panting, her head thrown back against the tile.

“You like that?” he murmured against her skin, switching to lavish the same attention on her other breast. His teeth grazed her, a sharp, perfect sting of pleasure. “You like me telling you how pretty you are? How good you feel?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes. Please.”

He didn't kiss her mouth. He buried his face in her cleavage inhaling the scent of her skin. He nuzzled the soft valley between her breasts.

“I am going to touch you until your body forgets his name." he promised against her skin.

He looked at his handiwork with a satisfied smirk. Then his hands moved down.

He skimmed his palms over her stomach. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her scrub pants.

"Lift your hips," he commanded.

Y/N obeyed. She was desperate for him.

He pulled the pants down. He stripped her completely leaving her naked and vulnerable on the cold marble.

He stepped between her legs again. He spread her thighs wide.

"Open for me," he said.Harry’s eyes devoured her. “Jesus. Even better than I dreamed.” He sank to his knees on the hard floor, his hands sliding up the outsides of her thighs. “Look at this perfect pussy. All wet for me already.” He spread her folds with his thumbs, and the cool air made her clit throb. “So pink. So pretty. My gorgeous girl. You never got this wet for him did you?” he praised. He slid one finger through her wetness and held it up to show her.

"Never," Y/N sobbed. "Never like this."

"Good," Harry said. "Because you belong to me now."

He slid two fingers inside her.

He didn't thrust. He curled them beckoning her. He found that swollen spot inside her and rubbed it with a deliberate torturous rhythm.

“Oh, god…” Her hips jerked, seeking more pressure. Y/N bucked against his hand.

"Harry please," she begged. "I need you inside."

"Not yet," he whispered. He lowered his head again biting lightly at the curve of her breast while his fingers worked inside her. "What’s the rush? I have you all night”

Harry kept his fingers curled deep inside her.

“Inside,” she begged, her hands fisting in his hair. “Please, Harry, I need you inside.”

Y/N gasped her head falling back against the mirror. The cool glass fogged up from her heat.

"Right there," Harry murmured.

He picked up the pace. He crooked his fingers. At the same time he used the heel of his hand to grind against her clit.

It was too much. It was sensory overload.

"Harry," she sobbed. Her hips bucked off the marble trying to get closer to his hand. "Harry please."

"Be a good girl and come on my fingers" he ordered. His voice was low and rough. "I want to watch you fall apart. I want to be the one who breaks you."

The command, wrapped in praise, was the final key. The coil snapped. Pleasure detonated, not as a single wave, but as a series of deep, pulsing shocks that radiated from her core out to her fingertips, her toes, the roots of her hair. She cried out, a raw, broken sound, her body bowing as she rode his hand through the crashing waves.

“That’s it! Look at you. Fuck, you’re beautiful.” He kept his fingers moving, gentler now, drawing out the last shudders until she was limp and trembling

Harry didn't stop.

He kept working her through the peak. He rode out the waves with his hand milking every last drop of pleasure from her until she was sobbing and trembling in his grip.

He brought his fingers to his lips and licked them tasting her. His eyes never left hers.

"Delicious," he whispered.

Y/N slumped against the mirror. She was wrecked. Her legs were shaking so hard she didn't think she could stand. Her chest was heaving.

Harry didn't give her time to recover.

He stepped back just enough to finish undressing. He shoved his trousers and boxers down his thighs. He was fully hard thick and heavy with need. He grabbed a foil packet from his pocket and sheathed himself with shaking hands.

He stepped back between her legs.

"Come here," he growled. "Let me have you.”

He gripped her hips. His thumbs pressed into the soft flesh of her waist grounding her.

“My good, good girl.” He pushed forward, sinking into her in one long, exquisite stroke. They both groaned, the sound mingling. He filled her completely, a stretching, burning perfection that made her eyes roll back

“Oh, fuck. Y/N…” He buried his face in her neck, his hips flush against hers, letting her adjust. “You feel… unbelievable.” He pulled back almost all the way, then sank in again, slower this time, setting a deep, rolling rhythm.

One hand braced against the wall by her head. The other found her breast again, his palm rough against her sensitive skin, his thumb rubbing her nipple in time with his thrusts.

“Watch,” he ground out, his voice strained. “Watch me take you.”

She looked down between their bodies. Saw his cock, glistening with her wetness, disappearing into her. Saw the way her breasts jiggled with every powerful drive of his hips. The visual was so obscenely erotic, a fresh surge of heat pooled low in her belly.

“You like watching?” he panted, following her gaze. “Seeing how well you take my dick? You were made for this. Made for me.”

His words stoked the fire higher. The pleasure was building again, a different kind, deeper, more insistent. But she knew her own body. The friction was incredible, lighting up every nerve, but the focused pressure she needed was fading.

Her hand slipped between their bodies. Harry’s thrusts faltered for a second, a question in his eyes.

“I need… just a little…” she whispered, her fingers finding her clit, swollen and hypersensitive.

Understanding dawned. His smile was fierce, proud. “Yes. Do it. Touch yourself for me. Show me how you come.”

He adjusted his angle, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, hitting a spot that made her see stars. Her own fingers worked in frantic, tight circles, syncing with his rhythm. The slap of skin, their ragged breathing, his choked praises—it was a symphony of need.

“That’s it… fuck… you’re so beautiful like this… so desperate… gonna make me come…”

The pressure built, a screaming tension in every muscle. Harry’s hand tightened on her breast. His pace became erratic, punishing.

"Don't you dare look away. You take this. You be a good girl and take it all.” he warned.

He drove into her three more times hard fast and deep.

On the final thrust he groaned a low broken sound torn from his chest. He held himself deep inside her pouring himself into the condom spending himself completely.

He collapsed forward. He caught his weight on his forearms bracing himself on the mirror so he wouldn't crush her injuries. He buried his face in the curve of her neck.

He was breathing hard. His heart was hammering against her chest.

He kissed her damp skin.

After a long moment he lifted his head.

His hair was a mess damp with sweat. He looked thoroughly unraveled but a wicked glint returned to his heavy eyes. He looked down at her flushed face.

"So," he panted a lopsided grin finally tugging at the corner of his mouth. "How was my bedside manner?"

Y/N blinked. Then a bubble of laughter rose in her chest. She let out a breathy genuine giggle that chased away the last of the shadows in the room.

She reached up and brushed a damp curl off his forehead.

"Adequate," she teased breathless. "I have seen better."

Harry chuckled. The sound was low and warm and rumbled against her chest. He kissed the tip of her nose.

"You are giving me five stars on Yelp and you know it."

The first thing Y/N picked up was the smell.

It wasn't the smell of damp towels or stale beer. It was the rich aroma of fresh coffee and expensive cologne.

She opened her eyes.

She was drowning in white linens. The bed was massive. The room was bathed in the soft grey light of a rainy London morning but it was warm inside.

She stretched.

Her body protested immediately. Her ribs gave a sharp throb of pain reminding her of Mark’s boot. But there was another ache too. A dull heavy soreness between her legs and a sting on her breast where Harry had marked her.

She smiled.

She sat up pulling the duvet up to her chin.

The door opened.

Harry walked in.

He was already dressed. He was wearing a fresh suit charcoal grey this time perfectly tailored. His hair was styled back. He looked crisp and professional like he hadn't spent the night ravaging her on a bathroom counter.

He was carrying a tray.

"You are awake," he said.

He walked over to the bed and set the tray down on the nightstand. There was a pot of coffee a bowl of fruit and a plate of pastries that looked like they came from a bakery in Paris.

"What time is it?" Y/N asked. Her voice was raspy.

"Ten," Harry said. He sat on the edge of the bed.

"Ten?" Y/N’s eyes widened. "Harry I have a shift at noon. I have to go home. I have to change. My scrubs are ruined."

"Relax," Harry said. He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her. "Drink this."

Y/N took the cup. She took a sip. It was perfect.

"You don't have to go back to the apartment," Harry said calmly. "I had a team go there this morning."

Y/N froze. The cup rattled against the saucer.

"You went to the apartment?" she whispered. "Was Mark there?"

Harry’s expression didn't change. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Mark is no longer a concern," Harry said.

His voice was even. It was devoid of emotion. It was the voice of a man discussing a business merger or a pest control problem.

"What does that mean?" Y/N asked.

"It means he vacated the premises," Harry said. "And he agreed that it would be in his best interest to never contact you again. He was very cooperative once we explained the alternative."

Y/N looked at him. She saw the bruising on his knuckles. She knew exactly what "explained the alternative" meant.

She should have been horrified. She was a doctor. She took an oath to do no harm.

But she remembered the way Mark had laughed when he locked her out in the rain. She remembered the sound of his fist hitting her face.

She took another sip of coffee.

"Okay," she said.

Harry smirked. He looked pleased with her acceptance.

"Your things are being moved here as we speak," he continued. "But I took the liberty of buying you something to wear for today. Your scrubs were... retired."

He gestured to a garment bag hanging on the closet door.

"Eat," he commanded standing up. "My driver is waiting downstairs. He will take you to the hospital whenever you are ready."

He leaned down. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. It was chaste and domestic and completely at odds with the violence he was capable of.

"Have a good shift Doctor," he said.

He turned and walked to the door. He didn't tell her to come back. He left the door open literally and metaphorically.

"Harry?"

He stopped. His hand hovered over the brass handle. He looked back over his shoulder eyebrows raised.

Y/N took a bite of the pastry. She looked him right in the eye.

"I get off at eight," she said. "If I am coming back here I expect dinner to be ready. And I don't mean takeout."

Harry stared at her.

For a second he looked stunned. Then a slow genuine grin spread across his face. It made him look younger. It made him look less like a monster and more like a man who had just won the lottery.

"Understood," he said.

"And Harry?" she added. "Make sure you are not wearing that suit when I get back. I want to ruin another shirt.”

Harry chuckled. The sound was low and appreciative.

"See you later," he promised.

"See you later," she said.

He walked out closing the door softly behind him.

Y/N sat alone in the massive bed and she picked up her phone. She deleted Mark’s number without a second thought.

She tossed the phone onto the empty side of the bed. She didn't feel sad. She didn't feel guilty.

Eight o'clock couldn't come fast enough.