T0 BE F*CKED BY MY RIVAL ATTENDING (1)
1366 Words
NIKOLAI.
Seventeen hours into surgery and that voice cuts through the speakers like a scalpel.
“Your suturing technique is sloppy, Volkov. That transplant won’t last the week.”
I don’t look up.
Can’t afford to.
But my jaw clenches hard enough to crack molars.
Dr. Alexei Morozov.
World class Neurosurgeon.
Moscow medical royalty.
The only other surgeon in this hospital who might—might—be as good as I am.
Also the only person standing between me and Chief of Surgery.
“If you’re not operating, Morozov, you’re wasting oxygen in my gallery.”
“Teaching hospital. I’m educating our residents on what happens when arrogance exceeds ability.”
One of my residents shifts nervously. I tie off the suture with perfect precision—because it is perfect, f**k him very much.
“Educate them somewhere else. Or better yet, go cherry-pick another easy case for your statistics.”
“Easy case?” His laugh is sharp. “I just spent nine hours removing a glioblastoma from the motor cortex. Zero deficits. But please, continue your little plumbing project.”
“Plumbing project?” I glance up at the gallery.
Mistake.
Alexei leans against the glass like he’s watching theater instead of surgery. Tall, dark-haired, those sharp Slavic features that belong on magazine covers. Even in surgical scrubs, he looks like money.
Because he is money.
Morozov Oil. Three generations of Moscow elite.
He’s also—I force the thought away. Not relevant. Not professional.
Definitely not something I should be thinking about while knuckle-deep in someone’s chest cavity.
“This ‘plumbing project’ has a ninety-eight percent survival rate,” I say. “How’s yours?”
“Higher. But then, I actually accept challenging cases instead of—”
“Instead of what? Being so risk-averse you only operate when success is guaranteed?”
“That’s rich, coming from someone who literally just refused the Michaels case last week because—”
“Because the patient was brain-dead and you know it. Unlike some surgeons, I don’t pad my stats with vegetable transplants.”
Silence ate at the OR.
And then he seethed, “Did you just call my patient a vegetable?”
“If the EEG is flat…”
“You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re in my gallery at three in the morning instead of sleeping. Who’s the asshole?”
I can practically feel him glaring through the glass. It shouldn’t be satisfying.
It is.
I finish closing. Perfect work as always. When I finally strip off my gloves and look up, the gallery is empty.
Good. Maybe he finally pissed off and went to go s**t on someone else’s morning.
The scrub room door opens as I’m washing up.
Of course.
Alexei moves to the sink beside me like he has every right to be here.
Which, technically, he does. But still.
Up close, he’s even more annoyingly perfect. Sharp jawline, those grey eyes, not a hair out of place despite working all night.
Meanwhile, I probably look like I’ve been through a war. Which, after seventeen hours of surgery, isn’t far off.
“Your patient will be fine,” he says, soaping his hands. “Despite your medieval technique.”
“My technique is flawless.”
“It’s aggressive. There’s a difference.”
“Aggressive works. Unlike your approach of operating exclusively on cases a medical student could handle.”
His hands still. “That craniopharyngioma was wrapped around the Circle of Willis. I had millimeters of margin. One wrong move and the patient stroking out.”
“But you didn’t make a wrong move. Because you’re talented.” I pause. “And you only take cases where your talent is enough.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you never push yourself. Never take real risks. You’re coasting on your name and your natural ability.”
“And you’re compensating for your background by being needlessly reckless.”
There it is.
The money thing.
Always comes back to that with him.
“My background,” I say slowly, “is why I’m better than you. I had to fight for everything. You had it handed to you.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” He turns to face me. “That the only reason I’m successful is family money?”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.” He steps closer. “I’m successful because I’m brilliant. Because I work harder than anyone else. Because I’ve published more research than any surgeon under forty in this country.”
“Research daddy’s connections got published.”
“f**k you.”
“f**k you back.”
We’re standing too close now. I can smell his cologne—something expensive and understated. Can see a small scar above his left eyebrow I’ve never noticed before.
His breathing has changed.
Subtle, but I notice.
I noticed a lot about this son of a b***h.
The way his pupils are slightly dilated. The tension in his shoulders that has nothing to do with anger.
I know that look.
I’ve seen it before, on other men, in darker places than hospital scrub rooms.
“You know what your problem is, Morozov?” I ask, voice dropping lower.
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“Your problem is that you think obsession looks like competition.” I tilt my head, studying him. “But I’ve seen the difference. I know what it looks like when someone can’t stop watching. Can’t stop finding excuses to be in the same room. Can’t stop—”
“Stop.” His voice is rough.
“Why? Getting uncomfortable? Worried I’m going to say something true?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” I take one step closer. We’re nearly chest to chest now. “Then tell me why you’re here. At three AM. In my scrub room. When you could be anywhere else.”
His jaw works. “I told you. I was—”
“Teaching. Yes. Very noble.” I’m close enough now to see his pulse jumping in his throat. “Or maybe you just wanted to see me. Wanted to pick another fight because it’s the only way you can justify being near me.”
“You’re insane.”
“And you’re hard.”
The words drop between us like a bomb.
He goes rigid. “What?”
“Don’t bother denying it. I can see it.” I glance down deliberately, then back up to his face. “Question is—how long have you been walking around like that? Since the gallery? Or did it start when you walked in here and saw me?”
“Nikolai—”
“It’s fine, you know. Natural, even. Adrenaline, competition, all that testosterone.” I lean in, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “Or maybe it’s something else. Maybe Moscow’s golden boy has been nursing a curiosity he’s too proud to acknowledge.”
It’s common knowledge that I liked men.
And for the longest time, I’ve picked up on the fact that Alexei Mozorov was curious on what it would feel like to touch a c**k that isn’t his.
His breath hitches. Just slightly. But I catch it.
“I don’t—” he starts.
“Yes, you do.” I’m so close now I can feel the heat coming off him. “And here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to stop pretending this is about surgical technique or professional rivalry. You’re going to admit what you actually want. And then—” I pause, letting the moment stretch. “Then we’re going to your office, because it’s closer, and I’m going to give it to you.”
For three seconds, he doesn’t move.
Doesn’t even breathe.
And then his chest heaves as his eye narrow, “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“I’m sure of what I see. The rest is up to you.”
Another beat of silence.
His eyes search my face, and I can see him warring with himself.
Pride versus want.
Control versus curiosity.
Want wins.
And then he deadpans roughly, “My office.”
- Writer
