Hospital drama

The hospice ward was a sanctuary of silence that night, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic and the faint musk of fading lives. My white coat hugged my frame, the fabric brushing my skin as I moved through the dim halls, my stethoscope a cool weight against my chest. I was accustomed to the rhythm—soft footsteps, the rustle of charts, the murmured reassurances—but as I approached Room 14, a shiver danced up my spine, a whisper of something primal stirring beneath my calm.

I pushed the door open, and there he was—Liam. Not the patient, Mr. Harrow, whose name adorned the chart, but this man, this presence, lounging by the bed with a grace that made the sterile room feel alive. His silvered eyes glinted like liquid moonlight, tracing me from the curve of my calves to the swell of my breasts beneath my blouse. His dark hair fell in a silken wave, his suit clinging to a body that promised sinew and strength. My breath caught, my clipboard trembling in my hands, a flush creeping up my neck. “You’re not supposed to be here,” I said, my voice a husky tremor, betraying the heat pooling in my core.

He rose, a slow unfurling of power, and his smile was a predator’s tease—lips parting to reveal the faintest hint of fangs, sharp and enticing. “I’m exactly where I need to be,” he purred, his voice a velvet caress that slid over my skin, igniting a spark low in my belly. I should’ve retreated, called for help, but my body betrayed me, stepping closer, drawn by a magnetic pull I couldn’t resist. His hand grazed my wrist—ice-cold, electric—and my pulse leapt, a throb that echoed between my thighs.

He closed the distance, his fingers sliding up my arm, tracing the edge of my blouse with a touch that was both tender and commanding. “You’re exhausted,” he murmured, his breath cool and spiced against my lips, “let me take it all away.” My protest died as he tilted my chin, his gaze locking with mine, and I felt my will dissolve, a soft surrender to the hunger in his eyes. His mouth descended to my neck, a whisper of lips before the bite—sharp, exquisite, his fangs sinking deep into the tender flesh below my jaw. I gasped, my body arching against him, the sting blooming into a molten wave that flooded me, thick and sweet as honey. He drank, each pull a slow, sensual sip that tugged at my core, unraveling me thread by thread. My hands clutched his shoulders, fingers sinking into the fabric of his jacket, and a moan spilled from my lips—low, wanton, a sound I didn’t recognize as my own.

His tongue swept over the wound, a languid stroke that sealed it, and I trembled, caught in a haze of heat and need. “You’re mine now,” he whispered, his words a dark promise that sank into my soul, binding me to him. My mind swam, heavy with a velvet fog, and he kissed me—slow, deep, his tongue teasing mine, tasting of copper and something ancient, forbidden. My hands roamed, fumbling with his shirt, buttons yielding to reveal the hard planes of his chest, cool and smooth beneath my palms. He pressed me against the wall, the plaster a shock against my back, and his hands were everywhere—sliding up my skirt, parting the fabric to expose the lace clinging to my hips, peeling my blouse away until it fell in a whisper of silk.

My breath hitched as he lifted me, my legs wrapping around his waist, the friction of his suit against my bare skin a delicious torment. His fingers teased the edge of my panties, slipping beneath to find me slick and ready, and I arched into his touch, a whimper escaping me. He entered me then, slow and deliberate, each thrust a deep, claiming rhythm that filled me, stretched me, drove me to the edge. His mouth found my breast, teeth grazing the sensitive peak through the lace, and I shattered—my cry muffled against his shoulder, my body trembling as waves of pleasure crashed through me, leaving me limp and panting in his arms.

When it was over, he set me down, my legs unsteady, and vanished into the shadows. I woke the next morning in my own bed, my scrubs folded neatly, my skin unmarred. The night was a fevered blur, but my body told a different story. In the mirror, I saw a stranger—my frame leaner, my curves sculpted, my skin glowing with a silken sheen that begged to be touched. My hair cascaded in rich, lustrous waves, my hazel eyes sparking with a new, feral light. I ran my hands over my hips, marveling at the tautness, the allure, and a strange confidence surged through me—bold, unshakable, radiating from my core.

At work, I was a vision. My steps were lighter, my voice a sultry command that turned heads—patients lingered on my smile, nurses flushed under my gaze. But there was a purpose, a whisper in my mind: Find me someone. Liam’s voice, faint but insistent, guided me. I scanned the charts, my fingers lingering on Mr. Ellis—terminal, alone, perfect. I arranged his transfer, my hands steady as I adjusted his IV, a thrill coursing through me as I obeyed.

That night, Liam returned, slipping into the room wearing Mr. Ellis’s frail face, but those silvered eyes betrayed him. “Good girl,” he purred, and my body sang with pride and desire. He fed from me again, his bite a slow ecstasy that left me trembling, and then he took me—on the narrow bed, the sheets tangling around us, his hands cold and possessive as they roamed my newly honed curves. I was his thrall, a vessel for his hunger, and yet I felt alive, powerful, my transformed body a gift I craved to offer. Each time he came, feeding and claiming, I welcomed it, my confidence growing, my purpose sharpening—searching for the next, bound to him by blood and a desire that burned brighter with every touch.