Unmatched Wife: Not His To Claim Anymore novel Chapter 94

Chapter 94

BIANCA

I turned back toward the car park and walked.

“Are you okay?” Louis asked, his hand patting my shoulder in a very deliberate comforting gesture he’d clearly learned from watching Rivera comfort me.

“I’m okay, sweetheart,” I said. “I’m fine.”

And I was. I was fine.

I was just going to keep telling myself that until it was true.

I’d made a choice when I’d come to BloodMoon City. I’d left that life behind—Matthew’s pack, that marriage, everything that had tried to destroy me. And yes, I’d left Theo behind too, which was a grief I carried every single day.

But I couldn’t go back. Going back meant walking into a situation where Matthew thought I was dead, where my supposed death was the only thing protecting me from pack law, where returning would unravel everything Rivera had built to keep me safe.

And Theo had his father. Matthew was far from perfect, but he loved his son. Theo would be okay.

He had to be okay.

I pushed the thought down firmly, the way I’d been practicing, and focused on buckling Louis into his car seat.

Moving forward. That was what I did now.

That was what I had to do.

The trauma unit was its usual organized chaos when I arrived, five minutes early for my noon shift. The morning team were completing their handover notes, and I could already see two new patients in the intake area.

I was pulling up my case list for the afternoon when I heard James’s voice carrying down the corridor from the direction of the supply bathroom.

“No, no, no–are you kidding me right now? This is the third time this month. Third time-

I rounded the corner to find James standing outside the supply bathroom in the beginning stages of what appeared to be a genuine crisis. His scrubs had a large, unmistakable stain across the front that confirmed my immediate suspicion about the

nature of the crisis.

“Did a patient just-

“Yes,” James said, his voice the particular flatness of someone maintaining composure through sheet willpower. “A very sinall patient with very poor timing, I have an appointment in” be checked his watch with desperation “fourteen minutes. Fourteen minutes and I smell like the inside of a bin.”

I pressed my lips together. “Okay. Okay, wait here.”

“Where are you going?”

“To help.” I was already moving toward the locker room. “What size are you?”

“What?”

“Scrubs. What size?”

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Chapter 94

“Medium. Why do you-”

“Fourteen minutes, James. Stop talking.”

+30 Bonus

I grabbed a spare set of scrubs from my locker–mediums from the stash I kept for emergencies after one too many unexpected situations in trauma—and went back to find him still standing in the same spot, looking mournful.

“Go shower,” I said, thrusting the scrubs at him. “I’ll get you fresh shoes from supplies. Do you have your white coat on the hook in your office?”

“Yes, but-”

“Go. Now. Fast shower, James, not one of your philosophical ones.”

He disappeared into the bathroom and I heard the shower turn on approximately three seconds later, which might have been a record. I raided the supply cabinet for fresh shoe covers since his sneakers had suffered collateral damage, then ducked into his

office for his white coat.

By the time he emerged, damp–haired but significantly improved, I had everything waiting.

“You are a saint,” he said, accepting the clean scrubs and pulling on his white coat. “An absolute saint. They should put your face on hospital walls.”

“They should absolutely not.” I picked up my perfume from where I’d set it on the supply counter–I’d brought it specifically because the trauma unit occasionally acquired smells that clung to everything–and raised an eyebrow. “Turn around.”

“Are you going to spray me?”

“The vomit smell is still in your hair. Unless you want your patient to spend the entire appointment wondering what that smell is, yes, I’m going to spray you.”

He turned around, and I spritzed my perfume carefully–not too much, just enough to neutralize the lingering evidence of his morning. It was my custom blend, the one I’d had made when I discovered a sensitivity to most commercial fragrances. Delicate and floral without being overwhelming.

“You smell like a garden now,” I observed.

James turned back around and performed an experimental sniff of his shoulder. “Better than the alternative.” He adjusted his white coat and checked his watch again. “Eight minutes. That was the fastest shower I have ever taken in my life. My hair is still

wet.”

“It’ll dry,” I said. “Go see your patient.”

“Thank you, truly, from the bottom of my soul- He was already moving down the corridor.

“James,” I called after him. “Who’s the patient? Anyone I should be aware of from a curse–work perspective?”

He paused, looking back, “Kid who needs help grieving a dead parent. Dr. Fisher sent them over for a scan and behavioral assessment–standard protocol when children exhibit dissociative responses. Kid thought they saw their dead mum at a park yesterday, chased a stranger through a crowd.” He shook his head, “It’s a hard case. Single dad, both of them still in the thick of it.”

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