ALEXEI.
Seven days.
Seven days since Nikolai Volkov fingered me against a wall and made me beg.
Seven days since I realized I want him to f**k me.
Seven days of complete mental deterioration.
I’m in OR 2, removing a meningioma from a patient’s frontal lobe, and I can’t focus. My hands are steady—they’re always steady—but my mind keeps drifting.
To his fingers inside me. To how it felt. To how much I want more.
“Dr. Morozov?” My resident’s voice cuts through. “The dura?”
I blink. I’ve been staring at the exposed brain for god knows how long.
“Continue irrigation,” I say. “I’ll close the dura myself.”
I finish the surgery on autopilot. Perfect technique. Zero complications. But I’m not present. Hell, I haven’t been present all week.
In the scrub room after, I catch my reflection.
