His Ember, Her Fyre

Chapter 1: Code Blue

Ember's P.O.V.

My throbbing head serves as a harsh reminder of my past mistakes, as I try not to kick myself in the ass for it. Perhaps that extra glass of liquid strength this morning wasn’t a great idea. It doesn’t mix well with this crappy hospital coffee—if you could even call it that. While lounging in the break room, I pray for a peaceful day. But my prayer isn’t rooted in altruism; I hope nobody gets hurt badly enough to need my help, because, quite frankly, I’d like to go the f**k home.

As I tap my fingers rhythmically against the cool, metallic surface of the aluminum table, my mind drifts through the myriad of choices and moments that have brought me to this point in my life. I love my job; being a surgeon feels like stepping into the shoes of a superhero, wielding the power to heal and save lives—at least, that’s what I’ve often been told. That's not the reason I became one, though. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead and the distant sounds of hurried footsteps in the bustling hospital corridor create a familiar backdrop, grounding me in the urgency of my surroundings.

Just as I begin to relish these thoughts, a sudden message cuts through my reverie like a knife, shattering any flicker of hope I had been nurturing. “Dr. Jackson, we have a Code Blue in room C-217.” The voice crackles through the aging hospital intercom, just as I’m mid-sip of my now-lukewarm, bitter black, insipid sludge. I let it slide down my throat, relishing the temporary jolt it gives me—pathetic that I rely on something so weak to keep me upright. I shouldn’t complain, since I’ve fought tooth and nail to be here. What drove me was the ability to stand among the best…to be the best. Montreal’s top trauma surgeon before the age of thirty is an accolade most people would kill to earn, but it came naturally to me—I also never let a man get in my way, unlike some of my peers who seemed content to linger in the shadows.

Being an orphan taught me early on that survival meant proving your strength by any means necessary, including being alone. Which is what I did. But right now, even that doesn’t compare to how f*****g exhausted I feel. Thirty-seven sleepless hours claw at my nerves, pressing down like an unbearable weight. My body screams for rest. The coffee isn’t working. Although I love my job, I crave my sleep—and bourbon just as much, if not more. I finish my coffee, trying not to focus on the texture, as I press the button on my pager. “On my way.” Half-running, I weave through the hospital corridors, the fluorescent lights overhead humming like an overworked beehive. The air smells of antiseptic and over-brewed coffee, but beneath it, there’s something sharper—blood. A smell I’ve become accustomed to.

I turn the corner in the C-wing and slow at the sight before me. A group of female nurses huddled together, giggling in the corner, their heads bent toward each other like schoolgirls sharing secrets. A few male nurses stand nearby, arms crossed, expressions twisted in something between disgust and unease as they glare at room C-217. The room I’m headed to. Then I notice the two armed guards. They stand like imposing statues outside the door, their hands poised near their weapons. Every muscle in their bodies is tense, as they scan the area for any sign of commotion. One of them exudes a sense of boredom. His features compare to the lovechild of an ogre and bulldog, with a furrowed brow and an uninterested gaze that suggests long hours spent on guard duty. The other guard appears more anxious, shifting slightly on his feet; he's noticeably shorter than the typical prison guard, which makes him seem even less intimidating. I find it hard to hold back a chuckle at the thought of such a small figure attempting to evoke fear.

The realization settles in quickly: armed guards typically indicate an inmate transfer. My curiosity begins to spark at the edge of my exhaustion, but luckily, I don’t have to wait long for more information. “I heard he killed somebody,” one of the giggling nurses whispers. Ah, Emily—our resident flirt, the source of hospital gossip, and queen of poor decisions. She’s one of many who let men interfere with her job performance. However, what she says next makes me abandon any pretense of patience. “He could’ve killed a dozen people, and I’d still let him hit it.”

Oh, for f**k’s sake. I march over, my exhaustion now replaced with aggravation. “Either get to work or find work to do, ladies.” They jump like startled cats, their sheepish grins vanishing as they scurry off in opposite directions. However, their words curl into my thoughts like smoke. Why would he kill somebody? Maybe they deserved—.

I stopped that thought in its tracks. Terrible thinking, Ember.

Shaking my head, I focus on my task at hand. Just when I think I had managed to steer clear of the unprofessionalism that often plagued my hospital, I overhear something even more concerning. “Dr. Jackson better not save his ass. f*****g pig.” The words are loud and unapologetic, and they don’t come from the giggling nurses. It’s Shaloh, one of our surgical assistants. Standing near the doorway of C-217, arms still crossed, his glare was sharp and unwavering. He doesn’t even bother lowering his voice. He just crossed a big, f*****g line.

I stalk toward him. “One more phrase like that out of your f*****g mouth, and I kick you out of my hospital, do you understand?” My tone is razor-sharp, leaving no room for argument. “We took an oath, Shaloh. We save lives, not end them. Now, get your head out of your ass and get back to work.”

His jaw clenches, but he says nothing. Good. Still, as he walks away, I catch the flicker of something in his expression. Not just frustration—something colder. Resentment, maybe? I’ll be dealing with that later. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to call him out for his shitty behavior. It’ll be the last, though. Whoever said being a doctor was just about saving lives is an asshole. They forgot to mention that it’s babysitting idiots is also part of the job description.

I snatch the patient’s chart off the stand and skim it: Fyre Taylor; Penetration Chest Trauma (ULQ) Why does that name sound familiar? Pushing through the doors, I suit up. The smell of blood is stronger here. The beeping of monitors creates a steady, rhythmic pulse over the pulse of my own racing heart. I make my way to my patient to assess the damage. Thankfully, my team has already stabilized him just enough for me to suture him.

“Talk to me,” I say, snapping on some gloves. I’m seriously looking forward to the distraction of my work—otherwise, I’ll be going back out there to give Shaloh a f*****g lobotomy.

Rebecca—my SFA and best friend of 11 years—doesn’t hesitate. “Stabbed multiple times in the ULQ. Whoever did it either sucks with a knife or wasn’t trying to kill him. Missed his heart completely. Lucky bastard.”

I exhale slowly. Stable. Patchable. He’ll live. As I get to work, I begin my regular suturing mantra to keep me in the zone—under, over, loopy-loop. Under, over, loopy-loop. I remember the first time Rebecca heard me mutter my little mantra under my breath. She called me a f*****g psychopath. She’s right.

It’s only as I begin to work on his sutures that I allow myself to see him. s**t. As much as I’d like to deny it, the nurses had a point. He’s beautiful. I’ve stitched up a lot of criminals before. Hardened men, worn down by time and bad choices. But this one doesn’t look like he belongs in a cell. He looks like he should be occupying the throne in Hell with the name Lucifer, instead of Fyre. Powerful jaw. High cheekbones. Thick lashes. Lips that—nope. I stop that thought from festering any more than it has. Men are trouble. I learned that a long time ago, unfortunately.

Growing up, while my peers had amazing flings, my mission was to send every man running for the hills. School was my distraction and my lover. Work eventually replaced that.

Rebecca nudges me, snapping me out of my thoughts. “So, what the hell crawled up Shaloh’s ass? I heard you rip into him. We all had to fight not to laugh.” The rest of the team murmured in agreement.

I sighed, shifting my focus back to my patient’s wounds. “Emily said she’d let our patient hit it.”

A chorus of chuckles ripples through the room. We all know Shaloh has been in love with Emily since she started here four years ago. Poor guy. “Doesn’t matter, though,” I add. “I don’t play with people’s lives, you know that. He said I better not save him.”

The room falls into a brief, deafening silence before Rebecca scoffs. “Sad thing is, our old doc probably would’ve let him die if it meant getting some tail.” Rolling my eyes, I focus on suturing my patient.

Normally, I’d be chatting away with my team, mostly making plans for our after-work festivities. Never have I been stunned into silence by a man. A man who is unconscious and a prisoner. I never thought being a technically 30-year-old virgin would have my lady parts getting all hot and bothered by a beautiful, bloody man—literally—he’s covered in f*****g blood.

Almost as though she noticed, Rebecca’s sharp eyes flicker between me and my patient. “You’re unusually quiet.”

Fuck. “I’m working.”

She doesn’t believe me. Of course, she doesn’t. After being my best friend for the last 11 years, you’d think I’d know better than to lie to her. “Uh-huh.” See? Skepticism. “So it has nothing to do with the fact that our unconscious convict is insanely good-looking?” I don’t respond. Because nope. Not happening. She won’t make me admit that right now.

Rebecca grins. “Damn shame. I bet he’d make great bad decisions.”

“Rebecca.” I glare at her.

She knows how to get under my skin all too well. “What?” She winks. “You like bad decisions.”

Snorting, I reply, “Not in the form of men.”

She leans in, her voice dropping. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

I do my best to ignore those words. She’s been trying to get me to lose my V-card for years now. Claims it’ll calm my t**s. She’s even taken the creative liberty of trying to convince me with outrageous bets, where if I lose, I must go on a date. One time, she dared me to chug a bottle of bourbon and then walk straight. So far, I’m winning, and I’m keeping it that way.

*BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.*

The heart monitor spikes, filling the room with chaos, which pulls me from my thoughts. My gaze snapped down just in time to see his eyes open—a storm cloud gray—and on me. “An Angel,” he rasps. His voice is deep and rough, as though it’s been dragged across gravel. A shiver rolls down my spine before I can stop it. Not fear—something else. Something I’ve never felt before.

The gruffness of his voice lingers—not just in my ears but in other places I’d rather not acknowledge.

Breathe in, breathe out.

As the beeping of the heart monitor levels out, and his eyes, thankfully, flutter shut again, I focus on calming my warming nether area. However, the damage is done. I’m soaked. For the first time in a very long time, I’m confused as to where the heat in my body has come from. Not even porn has had me feeling this hot. Perhaps it’s time for a new vibrator?

Deciding to think of something else, I’m hoping my team doesn’t give me a hard time with his little comment. Knowing them, however, I have a feeling they will. This is a first for any of us. By ‘us’ I mean me—this is a first for me.

I went to clean up the blood around his stitches. For a quick moment, the need to remove my gloves to feel his skin under my fingertips overwhelms me. What the f**k? I internally shake the unwelcome thoughts away.

Just when I think I’m in the clear from anyone else possibly getting under my skin— “Oh, an Angel!” Jacob, my PA, swoons dramatically while clutching his non-existent pearls. I knew they were going to give me a hard time with it.

I look at Rebecca. She’s grinning way too f*****g hard for my liking. “Damn, Ember.” She lifts an eyebrow. “Did you just get flirted with by a half-dead criminal?”

“Shut up.” I feel the heat creep up in my cheeks. Traitors.

She ignores me, turning to the others. “She’s red, folks! This is history. Mark the date. Ember Jackson finally felt something!”

“I felt like barfing. That’s what that feeling was.” Lies.

Rebecca smirks. “Whatever you say… Angel.”

As much as I love her, I need to focus. I will not lose control. Not now. “Enough.” Hoping my voice is serious enough to get everyone, including myself, back to focusing on our job. “Let’s get him set up for his transfusion and transferred to his room.” Without another word, my team gets back to work, their teasing dying down—or so I thought. “So, Angel, you coming to the bar later or what?” Jacob smirks.

As much as I’d love to partake in our usual after-work festivities, I recall the amount of sleep I’m lacking. “I’ve been up for 37 hours. The only bar I’m going to is called ‘bed’.”

A chorus of exaggerated sighs follows. “Okay, fine. One drink,” I concede. I mean, who needs sleep?

Excitement ripples through them as they rush to fetch a few items.

Now, normally it doesn’t take four people to fetch a blood bag, but my team knows I prefer this time to concentrate. Standing at the foot of the operating table, I turn around to start preparing the instruments that will be used for his transfusion. Big mistake. Little did I know, those stormy-gray eyes were open again, watching me. “Why did you say yes?” His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it. I freeze, my heart slamming against my ribs.

I’m thankful for the hum of the overhead lights, otherwise, I’m sure he’d hear it. Composing myself, I turn to face him, making sure my expression is unreadable. “You’re supposed to be asleep.” I reach for the anesthesia, which is at the foot of the operating table, and make my way to his side. Night night, fucker.

However, he grabs my wrist before I can inject him. His grip is weak, but there’s enough strength behind it to make my pulse jump. His hands were like fire against my wrist. “That s**t doesn’t work on me, Angel. Also, tell Emily that I’m not interested.” My breath catches.

What the hell? How did he hear that?

I snap out of it. “First of all, my name is Ember—I’m no angel. Second, why isn’t this on your charts? This is pertinent information.” Snatching my arm away, I do my best to ignore how naked my wrist suddenly felt without his grip. Reaching for his charts instead, I try to find anything indicating that he’s a medical anomaly—nothing.

“You won’t find it in my charts,” he grins. “Never told anyone.”

My throat goes dry. He’s watching me too closely. I don’t f*****g like it. Before I can say another word, the doors burst open. “Are we ready to wheel the—” Rebecca stops mid-sentence when she notices that he’s awake.

The smirk on his lips is pure trouble. “Oh, don’t stop on my account. Just pretend I’m asleep—I did.”

Ah, that’s how he—wait, what?

Then he winks. He f*****g winks.

Before anyone can respond, a voice booms from outside the room. “Where the f**k is he, Cooper?!”

I barely have time to register the warning signs before watching the scene unfold. And, judging by the smug grin on my patient’s face, this is going to be a problem.