The Cure He Craves

Chapter 17

The key turns in the lock of my own home, and it feels like breaking into a stranger’s house. The air is thick with cigar smoke and the low rumble of male voices. I step into the foyer, the clinical chill of Adrian’s penthouse still clinging to my skin, and the warmth of this place feels like a lie.

Marcus is in the living room, sprawled in his leather armchair like a king holding court. Three of his men are with him—Rico, Tomas, and a new face with cold eyes. Bottles of bourbon and empty glasses litter the coffee table. Marcus’s gaze lifts to mine, heavy-lidded and sharp. Drunk, but not sloppy. Dangerous.

“You’re late.”

“My last appointment ran long.” My voice is smooth, automatic. I set my medical bag down by the console table, my fingers lingering on the cool leather. Inside, the empty prescription pad feels like a accusation.

“We’re hungry. Make food.” It isn’t a request. It’s a broadcast of ownership for the men watching. “Sandwiches. The good roast beef from the deli. And more ice.”

I nod once. “Of course.”

In the kitchen, the overhead light is too bright. I move on autopilot, pulling the meat from the refrigerator, the rye bread from the pantry. My hands are steady as I slice. The serrated blade catches the light. I think of Adrian’s back under the flogger, the precise red lines, his shuddering breath. The control in my wrist then. The obedience in my hands now.

The murmur from the living room is a dull buzz until Rico’s voice cuts through, too loud, meant to be heard. “You got her trained well, Marcus. A pretty wife who knows her place. That’s rare.”

A rough laugh from the others. My knife stills. Trained. Obedient. The words slither under my skin.

I see Adrian on his knees beside my office chair. The desperate reverence in his black eyes as he looked up at me. Not trained. Chosen. He surrendered because I commanded it, because my will became his peace. The memory is a live wire in my chest, a secret heat that makes this fluorescent-lit kitchen feel like a cage.

I arrange the sandwiches on a platter, my movements efficient, empty. I carry it out, set it on the table among the bottles. I don’t meet any of their eyes. Marcus’s hand catches my wrist as I turn to leave. His grip is tight, a brand.

“Sit. You’ll bring the ice when we need it.”

I lower myself onto the edge of the sofa, back straight, knees together. A decorative accessory. The new man watches me, his gaze a slow crawl over my neck, my collarbone. Marcus sees it. He smiles, a possessive, cruel curve of his mouth, and pours himself another drink.

My phone vibrates in my blazer pocket. A single, insistent pulse. Then another. A call. I ignore it. It stops. A second later, it starts again, vibrating without cease.

Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “Turn that off.”

“It may be the hospital.” I pulled it out, a shield. The screen glows with a number I don’t recognize, but I know. I feel it in my bones. I stand. “I have to take this.”

“Sit down, Elara.”

“It’s a patient.” The lie is effortless. “An emergency.” I’m already moving toward the hallway, putting distance between me and his command. I answer as I reach the relative quiet of the corridor. “Dr. Voss.”

The voice on the other end is strained, breathless. Adrian. “Doctor.” The word is a gasp. “The medication. I took it. Something’s… wrong.”

My professional calm snaps into place, a suit of armor. “What are you experiencing?”

“Dizziness. Nausea. My heart is… it’s too fast. I can’t…” A ragged inhale. “I need you to come. Please.”

The ‘please’ undoes me. It’s not the performative weakness of a manipulator. It’s the raw, stripped tone of a man who has no one else to call. Or the perfect imitation of one.

“I’m on my way. Do not take anything else. Do not move.” I end the call and turn. Marcus is standing in the doorway to the living room, blocking my path. His expression is dark thunder.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“A patient is having a severe adverse reaction to a prescription I wrote today. It’s a liability issue. I have to assess him.” I keep my voice low, clinical, pulling my coat back on.

“Let him call an ambulance.”

“It’s my responsibility. I’ll be back within the hour.” I meet his gaze, and for the first time tonight, I don’t look away. The defiance is quiet, absolute. He sees it. It fuels his anger.

He steps closer, the bourbon in his breath hot against my face. “You walk out that door for some junkie patient, you’ll regret it.”

I don’t answer. I just stepped around him, my heels clicking a swift, deliberate rhythm on the marble floor. I grabbed my bag and went out the front door before he could decide to stop me. The night air is a slap, a liberation. I don’t run. I walk to my car with a purpose that feels like my own.

The penthouse is as I left it, silent and waiting. The door to the playroom is ajar. I push it open. Adrian is on the floor, leaning back against the wall beside the unused St. Andrew’s Cross. He’s shirtless, in sweatpants, his skin pale. He looks up as I enter, his black eyes glassy.

I drop to my knees beside him, my fingers going to his throat, finding his pulse. It’s steady. Strong. A little elevated, but nothing catastrophic. I place my palm on his forehead. Cool. No fever.

“Describe the dizziness.” My voice is all doctor.

“The room spun. When I stood up,” His gaze is locked on mine, unwavering.

“Did you vomit?”

“No.”

“Show me the bottle.”

He nods toward a small prescription vial on the floor a few feet away. It’s the one I wrote him. I pick it up. It’s full. Unopened. The seal is intact.

I look from the bottle to his face. The glassiness in his eyes isn’t illness. It’s the sheen of absolute focus. The performance falls away between us, silent and complete.

He didn’t call me here to be healed. He called me here to choose. To come to him when my husband commanded me to stay. He called me here to give me back the control I had to relinquish in my own home.

I set the bottle down. The click of the plastic on the hardwood is loud in the quiet room. I don’t move from my knees. I am level with him. His breath hitches as I reach out, not to check his vitals, but to place my hand flat on the center of his bare chest. I feel the solid, rapid beat of his heart under my palm. It kicks against my touch.

“Tell me the truth,” I say, my voice dropping from clinical to something intimate, dark. “What do you need?”