Every king needs his castle.
This King has something even better: an Operating Room.
It’s my domain. I know every inch of it.
It’s technically called an Operation Theatre, which makes sense to me because the second I step inside, I feel like I’m on stage. There’s the bright glare of the surgical lights. High-definition monitors zoomed in on each small movement of my hands. My surgical team waiting in the wings, rapt and wide-eyed, diligently handing me the tools I need to complete the job.
Today is my specialty—live organ transplant. Mr. Isaac, forty-two, needs a new heart. His two grown kids are waiting for him in the other room.
I’m Jason King, top surgeon at Hannsett Medical Center.
This surgery will go off without a hitch. I repeat the words in my head. Over and over until I believe them with every atom in my body.
My patient is laid out on the table in front of me. The anesthesiologist counts him down and puts him to sleep. I can hear the steady beat of his heart monitor. The heat of my breath beats back against my face from inside my mask.
“Status,” I request.
“Patient is fully sedated, Dr. King.”
“Tunes.”
“Yes, Dr. King.”
One of the techs hits the button on my iPhone, and immediately my playlist starts going. I lift my hand.
“Scalpel.”
The cold metal slides into my gloved fingers.
I’m Jason King, top surgeon at Hannsett Medical Center.
I’m Jason King.
I’m—
“Hey, monolithic moron. Don’t fuck this up.”
The familiar voice cuts through the still ambiance I’ve created, rippling across my OR. I lift my eyes from the table only long enough to confirm what I already know: Adam Donovan is behind the thick glass of the viewing area. The doctor has his thumb on the microphone that connects his room to mine.
“You hear a humming?” I ask one of my techs. “I think there’s a fly in the OR—”
“That’s my patient on your table, King,” Donovan warns.
“I’ve performed 300 successful surgeries in about as many days. I think I’ve got this under control.”
“To the tune of Bestie Boys? Jesus. You’re going to make my patient code on the table just from your music choices—”
“Nurse Kapoor, will you cut the chatter?”
She presses a button and cuts the feed.
The surgery is flawless.
My blood is cold in my veins as I snap off my gloves and wash my hands. I’ve been hyper-focused on every tiny movement of my fingers, and now I’m finally starting to feel the hit of adrenaline rush through me.
The post-surgery fall out is always a bitch.
I find myself washing my hands much longer than necessary, zoning in and out of focus. Out of the corner of my eye, a figure steps in beside me.
“You missed a spot,” Donovan says.
I finally turn off the sink and dry off my hands.
“Here to apologize?” I ask.
His dark eyes meet mine. “You did good. But you don’t need me to tell you that.”
I shrug. “It is the nice thing to do.”
I exit the OR. Donovan falls in step alongside me.
Donovan is gruff. Thorny around the edges. About as cuddly as a hedgehog. But he’s different. As the son of the CEO and the top surgeon, everyone at the hospital treats me like a God. Except for Donovan. We’ve known each other since we were teenagers. He teases hard and I tease back. It’s how we’ve always operated, and there’s comfort in that.
“Thanks to you, Isaac’s heart will live to beat another day,” Donovan says, which is as much of a good job as I’ll get from him.
“Ditch the old heart. Bring in a new one. If only it were that easy for all of us.”
I try not to sound bitter, but I can’t help it.
Donovan reads between the lines. “Have you heard from Nadine?”
The mention of her still feels like a thorn in the back of my neck. I roll my shoulders back. “No. I’m trying to just…move forward. Eyes on the future. Leave the past behind. You know?”
Now, Donovan breathes a light laugh. “I have a feeling that’s going to be harder than you think.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Guess who’s in town?”
“Cher. Bono. Oh! The naked cowboy?”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Stop guessing. Kenzi Stratton.”
Kenzi. Her name sends a whispering shiver up my arms. I stop in my tracks, my shoes squeaking against the polished hallway.
“Wow. It’s been—what. Ten years?”
“Thirteen.” Donovan’s gaze doesn’t leave mine. “I told her we might meet up later. If you’re interested.”
“Absolutely. I’m interested. Let’s do it. Right now.”
Donovan’s eyes sweep over me. “You need a shower first. And a shave. You look like a bear.”
I pick at my black beard. I have let it get overgrown. “Protect our forests.”
His shoulders square off. “Not the kind of bear I was talking about.”
I growl, low and feral.
Donovan lifts his hands. “I’m walking away.”
“Only you can prevent wildfires, Donovan!”
His retreating figure flicks me the bird.
