The Cure He Craves

Chapter 3

The rest of the day passed in controlled fragments.

Patient charts blurred into one another. Voices rose and fell around me—nurses calling updates, machines beeping in steady rhythm, footsteps echoing down sterile hallways. Everything moved exactly as it should. Predictable. Structured. Familiar. It was the kind of environment where I thrived, where I could lose myself in precision and purpose.

But today—

Today, something refused to settle.

Every quiet moment, every pause between cases, my thoughts drifted back.

To him.

To the way he had sat there like he owned the space.

To the way he had watched me—calm, controlled, unreadable.

To the way that single word had lingered long after I left the room.

Control.

It pressed at the edges of my thoughts, unwelcome and persistent.

“Dr. Voss?”

I blinked, pulling myself back to the present. A nurse stood in front of me, clipboard in hand, waiting.

“Yes?”

“Discharge papers for room eight,” she said. “They’re ready.”

“Thank you.”

I took the clipboard, scanned it quickly, forcing my focus into place. This was what mattered. Not a strange patient with a mask and an unsettling presence. Not the way my pulse had shifted in that room.

This.

Real. Tangible. Controlled.

The rest of my shift passed without incident. By the time I finished, the sky outside had darkened, the city shifting into night. Exhaustion settled deep into my body, heavy and familiar.

But beneath it—

Something else lingered. Sharp. Quiet. Unfinished. The moment I stepped into the penthouse, I knew something was wrong. The air felt different. Heavy.

The lights were too bright, casting harsh shadows instead of the usual dim glow Marcus preferred. And the smell—strong, unmistakable—hit me almost immediately.

Alcohol.

My grip tightened slightly on my bag as I closed the door behind me.

Marcus stood by the bar. A glass in his hand. A bottle opened beside him. His tie was gone, shirt partially unbuttoned, sleeves rolled without care.

Uncontrolled.

His eyes found me instantly. “You’re late.” His voice was rough. Not measured. Not calm.

Drunk.

“I was working,” I said, setting my bag down carefully.

He laughed. Sharp. Bitter. “Always working,” he muttered, taking another drink. “That’s all you ever say.”

I didn’t respond. Silence was safer. It always had been.

But tonight—

It didn’t matter.

Marcus pushed away from the bar and started toward me. His movements weren’t steady, but they weren’t careless either. There was tension in them. Something coiled and ready to snap.

“Who is he?” he asked.

The question hit without warning.

My brows pulled together. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb.” His voice dropped. “I asked you a question.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His jaw tightened.

“I’ve been hearing things,” he said slowly.

A cold sensation slid down my spine.

“Hearing what?”

“That my wife,” he continued, stepping closer, “has been… distracted.”

I held his gaze, refusing to look away.

“I work long hours. That’s not new.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s not.”

He took another step forward.

“But this?” he added, gesturing toward me. “This is different.”

I didn’t move.

“Different how?”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“You tell me.”

Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.

“I’m tired, Marcus,” I said finally. “If you have something to say, say it.”

His expression darkened. “I think you’re forgetting who you’re talking to.”

“No,” I said quietly. “I’m not.”

The tension snapped.

Marcus moved suddenly, grabbing me by the throat and pulling me toward him. His grip was tight, fingers digging into my skin hard enough to sting.

“Then act like it,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

Pain flared, sharp and immediate, but I didn’t react. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t give him anything.

“Let go,” I choked out.

For a second, his grip tightened.

Then—

He released me abruptly. Like I wasn’t worth the effort.

“Go to bed,” he muttered, turning away. “Before you say anything else you might regret.”

My throat throbbed where he had held me, but I ignored it. Without another word, I turned and walked toward the bedroom. My steps were steady, controlled, even as my pulse refused to settle.

The bedroom was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the city beyond the windows.

I didn’t turn on the lights.

I moved through the space automatically, shedding my clothes, stepping into the bathroom long enough to wash my face. Cold water against my skin. A moment to breathe. To ground myself.

But it didn’t last. Because the second I slipped into bed and closed my eyes—

My mind drifted.

Back to him.

To the mask.

To the voice.

To the way he had said my name.

I turned onto my side, forcing my eyes shut. Sleep came eventually. Slow. Heavy.

Unavoidable.

The dream didn’t come all at once. It built.

The same room. The same dim light. The same quiet tension hanging in the air. But this time—

I wasn’t sitting. I was standing. And he was closer. Too close.

Close enough that I could feel him. The heat of him. The presence of him. Something heavy in the air between us that hadn’t been there before.

“Dr. Voss.”

His voice was lower. Closer. I didn’t answer. Didn’t step back. Didn’t move.

“Do you always pretend you’re in control,” he murmured, “or is that just for me?”

My breath caught.

“I am in control.”

But even in a dream—

It didn’t sound certain. His hand lifted slowly, deliberately. Not touching. Not yet. But close enough that I felt it.

“Then prove it,” he said.

The air shifted. Tightened. Something unfamiliar coiled low in my chest, impossible to ignore.

I should have stepped back. Should have ended it. But I didn’t. I stayed exactly where I was.

“You hesitate,” he murmured.

“I don’t.”

“Then why are you still here?”

The question lingered. Because I didn’t have an answer. Because part of me didn’t want one. His hand closed around my wrist. Firm. Intentional. My pulse jumped beneath his touch.

"Take control, doctor, make me surrender."

And that was what broke it. I woke with a sharp breath.

Darkness surrounded me. The room was silent, the city a distant hum beyond the glass. My heart was racing. My skin warm. My thoughts—

Unsteady.

I pushed myself up, dragging a hand through my hair as I tried to ground myself. It was just a dream. Nothing more. But it didn’t feel like nothing. I glanced toward the door instinctively. It stayed closed. The room remained still.

Safe.

And yet—

My pulse didn’t slow. Because the feeling lingered. That same sharp, unsettling awareness. I exhaled slowly, pressing my fingers to my temple. This meant nothing. It had to mean nothing.

But as I lay back against the pillows, staring into the darkness—

One thought refused to leave. Not fear. Not even unease.

Something sharper.

Curiosity.