"Now listen, I'm a good surgeon. No, great surgeon. I've dedicated my life to medicine. Obsessed over getting it right. And yes, I screwed up but how many more lives have I saved?"

"So what you're essentially saying is losing a patient happens from time to time?"

"Yes."

"And sometimes we get it wrong?" I raised my spoon. "Not that I'm saying you did."

He turned his hands over. They'd stopped shaking. Tavon's face was marred with confusion.

He was young. Brilliant. And a great surgeon.

I had to push him over the edge so he'd be relieved when he came back to firmer ground. I needed to anchor him to a sense of safety. Get him to trust his own judgment again.

"When was the last time you ate?" I said.

"Five, yesterday."

"The surgery started at four fifteen and went on for six hours. You stayed in intensive care for a further two hours trying to save your patient. You didn't leave his side."

"You read my report?"

"Yes."

He looked thoughtful. "I had lunch. A snack before surgery."

"You were fine during the surgery. Performed every incision flawlessly. After leaving the ICU, you spiraled. Became hypoglycemic. You need to eat. This-" I pointed to the oatmeal a "will return your blood sugar to normal."

"I do feel a little better."

"Let Payton meet a nice single man. One who will take care of her the way she takes care of her patients. No more cheating on your wife."

"As if it's any of your business."

"Why did you marry Lynette?" I asked. "After all, she was the most incredible woman you'd ever met."

He frowned at me.

I added, "You're an egotistical bastard who wouldn't have settled for less."

He gave a look of relent. "Do you talk to all your patients like this?"

"You're not my patient," I said. "You don't need therapy. You need to grow a pair."

He rolled his eyes. "Psychopath? Was that the best you could think of?"

I arched a brow. "You're off the reservation. Thought I'd join you. See what it feels like in the cheap seats."

He let out a laugh. "Are you like this all the time?"

"Feel better?"

Tavon caressed his brow. "Fuck you."

"I take it that's a yes."

"It's a fuck you."

"You're smiling again."

"This is the quiet rage of a psychopath."

"Nice."

"And I thought I was messed up."

"You're welcome," I said. "You're grieving for your patient. He reminded you of your dad. Your father was a great surgeon too, apparently. A lot to live up to. You're setting the bar impossibly high."

"And how this is relevant?"

"Your patient was the same age as your dad when he died."

"You accessed my father's records?"

"Yes."

"How did you know he died here?"

"I checked his name. He came up in MedRecs."

He swallowed hard. A wave of emotion.

"I figured you'd have him in the best hospital," I said.

"That was a year ago."

"We don't get the privilege of ruminating. There's another life waiting to be saved."

"I lost sight of it."

"Tavon," I said. "You've been up for twenty-four hours straight. Give yourself a break. Go home. Make love to your wife and get some sleep."

"Sorry about your girlfriend."

I smiled at his thoughtfulness. "I let my guard down."

"Thank you for seeing me."

"I was here for the oatmeal," I said. "Thanks for having breakfast with me."

He looked sheepish. "I didn't know who else would understand."

"My door's always open."

"Not sure I like your brand of therapy, Dr. Cole."

"We're not so dissimilar, Dr. Pierre."

"What? We're both arrogant fucks but we get the job done?"

"We do."

He shook his head, his wariness lifting and the brightness returning.

"Your patient died of heart disease," I said. "Nothing you could have done would have saved him."

Tavon sat back and his shoulders lowered.

I took a sip of tea. "Before the operation, your patient stared into your eyes pleading for you to save his life."

"They always do."

"He asked for your best, Tavon. You gave it."

His lips trembled. "A more experienced surgeon-"

"Might not have fought so hard. He or she might have seen such a diseased heart and not spent nine hours trying to do the impossible."

"I was so close."

"Grief is not just about our pain. It's about honoring our patient's memory and expressing our belief that each life has meaning. That Mr. Ray Arnold counted." I raised my cup. "To Mr. Arnold and the indelible mark he left on this world."

Tavon raised his cup and knocked it against mine.

"What is it about tea that always makes you feel better?" he said.

"Theanine. It increases the brain's production of GABA. Meditation has the same effect."

Tea, a five thousand year-old beverage that had made my family a fortune over generations. It had always been more about the art of tea, the healing properties, the ability to soothe that had fascinated me. A sense of pride that my ancestors had been the ones who'd brought tea to the masses. A legacy that included our continued links with India.

Tavon had no idea I was the son of a billionaire tea mogul. In fact, most people didn't and there was no reason for them to. It served no purpose and threatened to blur the lines of friendship.

"Will you stay with me a while?" he said softly.

"Of course." I offered a reassuring smile. "I'll get us some more tea."

CHAPTER 15.

LIGHT SHIMMERED OFF the few golden locks appearing above the covers. Those fine strands were like burnished gold.

Mia clutched one of my shirts. She ached for me too.

My sweet, sweet lover, slept soundly, burrowed safely in our bed.

Lingering at the end, I realized how much I needed her. Mia's sweetness lifted this burden of knowledge that weighed all too heavily. The cruelty of life's sting slipped away when she was with me, even with her asleep.

If this was what it meant to be the moth, I didn't care. I yearned to burn up in her.

Be inside her.

I stripped off my clothes and kicked off my shoes and it felt symbolic, as though I was removing the residue of these last few hours. That incident at the club, where I'd realized Mia's vulnerability and knew what I was capable of to protect her.

The strain of seeing Tavon's pain and soothing him the best way I knew. Not with words of sympathy, but relighting that fierceness within him, that desire to forge on bravely despite truly comprehending the fragility of the lives we held in our hands.

Outside that window, dawn loomed. The world could go on alone.

The serenest retreat awaited me.

Mia, my refuge, my escape.

Upon the side table rested The Hero with a Thousand Faces by Joseph Campbell. Mia had found the book in my library and brought it up here to read.

Lifting the end of the comforter, I slipped under it and made my way, planting kisses to her feet and moving upward. She stirred and shuddered when my tongue met her sex. I lapped and flicked her clit, selfishly needing her.

"You're home," she said sleepily. "I'm so happy."

I replied by kissing deeper, taking her there firmly, lavishing more affection, tasting that which I'd become addicted to, bestowing suckles until she arched her back and breathed in gasps of pleasure.

"Not yet, Mia," I whispered.

"Oh, please."

No one could give her what she needed like me. I was the only man who could truly love her the way she deserved. I'd worship her every day like this.

I rose over her and grabbed her wrists, pinning her arms above her head and to the mattress before thrusting deep inside, feeling her tautness, her wetness allowing for my slow, leisurely glide.

I stared down at this impossible conquest.

"Please," she begged.

"Not yet."

"I can't..."