I didn’t go to him immediately.
I let him simmer for six long hours.
While I oversaw the interrogation of the captured mercenaries, reinforced the perimeter, and held my son in my arms for a few precious minutes, Justin remained strapped to that bed — aching, leaking, and completely alone with his thoughts.
When I finally returned to his room, the air was thick with his scent: dark, spicy Alpha musk soaked in frustration, pain, and desperate need. The monitors showed he had been hard almost the entire time.
Perfect.
He lifted his head the moment I entered. His golden eyes were glazed, lips dry, chest rising and falling rapidly. The hospital gown was tented obscenely, the fabric damp where he had been leaking for hours.
“Doctor Sanchez,” he rasped immediately, voice rough as gravel.
