The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 323

Chapter 158

Claim

What I assumed would be a super-quick visit to take blood completely spiraled the moment Dr. Mercer walked into the room, saw Locke looming in the corner, and asked me about me fainting.

She agreed with Mayhem and Locke about the urgency, and scolded me severely for not coming in yesterday. She then dragged forward every single oncology panel, detailed MRI scan, and full-spectrum blood profile that had originally been scheduled for next week.

Through every single minute of this grueling marathon, Locke hasn’t left my side by more than a couple of feet.

Even when the technicians asked him to step back so they could adjust the IV line in my arm, he only retreated as far as the threshold, his broad frame framed in the doorway like a guardian sentinel.

When I was sitting in the chilly waiting bay after all the blood draws, feeling faint, hollow, and lightheaded from mandatory fasting, he disappeared for less than three minutes.

He returned with a paper cup of water and a blueberry muffin he’d somehow badgered out of the staff lounge downstairs.

He sat on the small plastic chair beside my gurney – looking entirely ridiculous and massive against the laughably delicate medical furniture – and literally broke off tiny, bite-sized pieces of the muffin, feeding them to me one by one until I had finished every last crumb.

He ignored the amused glances from the nursing staff, his thumb gently catching the crumbs at the corner of my lips, his eyes fiercely monitoring every swallow I took.

When they brought me into Doctor Mercer’s private consultation room, he immediately moved the heavy leather armchair right up against the edge of the examination table, sitting so close that his massive frame blocked out the cold draft coming from the hallway vent.

He wrapped my cold, trembling hands in his own warm palms, slowly chafing life back into my skin while

we waited.

“Locke,” I say now, resting my heavy head against his solid shoulder as we wait for the doctor to come. “Please… go home. I mean it.”

His hand tightens instantly on mine, “What?”

“Look at you,” I say, reaching up with my free hand to gently trace the deep line of exhaustion etched into his cheekbone. “You’re dead on your feet. You’re operating on pure adrenaline and sheer stubbornness.”

“And?”

“And Doctor Mercer said the full oncology bloods won’t even be completely processed until late tomorrow afternoon anyway. The MRI readouts take about six hours to fully transcribe. We’re just sitting here staring at painted walls. Go back to the penthouse, and sleep for a couple of hours. I can call a private car when she finishes talking to me, or you can come pick me up later.”

“You think I’m leaving you here? You think I gave up sleep for two days to get back to you, just to walk out of a doctor’s office and go take a fucking nap while you sit in this chair alone waiting on cancer panels?”

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