Flash Marriage To The Alpha Colonel

The next twelve hours were a blur of checking vitals and adjusting IV drips. Caroline didn't sit down once. Every time Lieutenant Petersen stirred, she was there, checking his pupils, measuring his output. He woke up briefly around 3 AM, his eyes glassy with pain.

"Water," he croaked.

She held the cup with a straw to his lips, letting him take small sips. "Slowly, Lieutenant. You've been out for a while."

He looked at her, confused, then his gaze drifted to the guards outside the door. "Where is..." His voice trailed off, too weak to finish.

"You're safe," Caroline said, though she wasn't entirely sure she believed it herself. "Just rest."

He closed his eyes and drifted off again. Caroline sank back into the chair, rubbing her burning eyes. She hadn't heard anything from the outside world. No news on what Code Atlas meant, no updates on the lockdown. Just the hum of the machines and the muffled sound of boots in the hallway.

Around 6 AM, the door swung open without a knock.

Caroline jumped to her feet, her heart leaping into her throat. Jarrod Romero stood in the doorway. He looked exactly as he had the night before-immaculate, unyielding, and completely exhausted. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, but his posture was rigid.

He stepped inside, followed by two men in suits who looked like they hadn't slept in a week. Dr. Cromwell scurried in behind them, looking like a nervous chihuahua next to a pack of wolves.

"Status report," Romero barked. He wasn't looking at Caroline. He was looking at the bed.

"Vitals are stable, Colonel," Dr. Cromwell said, stepping forward. "No signs of infection. The surgery was a success, though we won't know about nerve damage for-"

"I wasn't asking you, Doctor." Romero's voice cut through the room like a blade. He shifted his gaze to Caroline, his eyes pinning her in place. "The nurse. Report."

Cromwell's mouth snapped shut. He took a step back, his face flushing.

Romero finally turned his full gaze to Caroline. Up close, his eyes were even more unnerving. They were a pale, stormy gray, fringed with dark lashes. They assessed her with a clinical detachment that made her feel like a specimen under a microscope.

"Now," he repeated.

Caroline swallowed, her palms suddenly slick with sweat. She wiped them on her scrubs and forced her voice to stay level. "Lieutenant Petersen's heart rate has been consistent, hovering around 72 BPM. Blood pressure 120/80. He woke briefly at 0300 hours, oriented but weak. I administered 2mg of morphine via IV at 0315 for pain management. Urine output is within normal limits."

Romero listened without blinking. His expression didn't change, but his eyes stayed locked on her face. Then, his gaze dropped. It moved down her scrubs, past the name tag pinned to her chest, and landed on the chart in her hands.

Specifically, on the signature line at the bottom.

Caroline watched his face. There was a minuscule shift. A slight narrowing of his eyes. His jaw, already tight, seemed to clench even harder. He stared at the name "Caroline Thompson" for a beat too long.

Then, just as quickly, the moment passed. He looked back up at her face, his expression once again a mask of stone.

"Acceptable," he said. He turned to Cromwell. "I want the security detail doubled. No one gets within fifty feet of this room without my explicit authorization. Not the hospital administrator, not the Joint Chiefs, not even God himself. Is that clear?"

"Y-yes, Colonel," Cromwell stammered. "But the board is already asking questions about the cost-"

Romero took a step toward Cromwell. It was a subtle movement, but Cromwell flinched like he'd been struck. "I am not concerned with the board, Doctor. I am concerned with keeping this man alive. If you can't manage that, I will find someone who can."

Cromwell paled. "Understood."

Romero turned back to the door. As he passed Caroline, he paused. He didn't look at her, but his voice washed over her, low and cold.

"Do your job, Nurse. Nothing else."

He walked out, his entourage trailing behind him. The door swung shut, and the oppressive weight in the room lifted.

Caroline let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Her hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against the counter to steady them.

"What an ass," she muttered under her breath.

But even as she said it, she couldn't stop thinking about the way he had looked at her name. Like it meant something. Like he recognized it.

The rest of the shift passed without incident. When Brenna came in to relieve her at 7 AM, Caroline practically ran to the locker room. She stripped off her scrubs, tossing them into the hamper, and stepped into the shower. The hot water sluiced over her, washing away the sweat and the antiseptic smell, but it couldn't wash away the memory of those gray eyes.

She dressed in the clothes she had worn to the date-the little black dress and the heels. She looked ridiculous. She felt ridiculous.

The cab ride home was suffocating. The morning traffic was a nightmare, and by the time the taxi pulled into the driveway of her parents' house, her nerves were frayed to the breaking point. She paid the fare, then opened the front door, bracing herself.

"Where have you been?"

The voice came from the living room. Caroline closed her eyes for a second, gathering her patience, before walking in.

Her mother, Mrs. Thompson, was sitting on the edge of the sofa. She was still in her housecoat, her arms crossed over her chest. Her face was a mask of barely contained fury.

"I was working," Caroline said, dropping her bag on the entryway table. "There was an emergency at the hospital."

"An emergency?" Her mother stood up, her voice rising. "Brenda Dawkins called me at six o'clock this morning. Do you know what she said? She said you walked out on Preston in the middle of dinner. You left him sitting there like a fool!"

Caroline rubbed the back of her neck. "Mom, I had to go. It was a Code-"

"I don't care if the building was on fire!" Mrs. Thompson shrieked. "You do not walk out on a man like Preston Finch! He makes three hundred thousand dollars a year, Caroline! He has a condo in Georgetown! Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a man like that?"

"He's a snob," Caroline said, her voice hardening. "He thinks nurses are beneath him. He told me I should just quit and find a man to support me."

"That's called being a provider!" her mother shot back. "That's what men do! Your father provided for me, and I provided him a home. That's how the world works!"

Caroline looked at her father, who was sitting in the armchair in the corner, hiding behind his newspaper. He didn't look up. He never did.

"I'm not having this argument," Caroline said, turning toward the stairs. "I've been up for over twenty-four hours. I need sleep."

"You're not going anywhere until we resolve this!" her mother snapped, stepping into her path. "Brenda is humiliated. Preston is humiliated. You have ruined our standing in the community!"

"Your standing?" Caroline let out a bitter laugh. "Is that all you care about? What the neighbors think?"

"It's called respect, Caroline! Something you clearly know nothing about!" Mrs. Thompson's eyes were blazing. "I have already spoken to Brenda. You are going to call Preston, and you are going to apologize to him. Personally."

Caroline stared at her mother in disbelief. "Apologize? For what? For having a job that matters?"

"For being rude! For being ungrateful!" Her mother jabbed a finger toward the phone on the hall table. "You will call him, and you will make this right, or so help me God, I will call him myself and apologize on your behalf. Do you want that? Do you want your mother begging for your forgiveness?"

The threat hit Caroline like a physical blow. The image of her mother groveling to a man like Preston Finch made her stomach turn. It was the ultimate manipulation, the one card her mother always played when she knew she was losing the argument.

Caroline's shoulders slumped. The fight drained out of her, leaving only exhaustion and a hollow ache in her chest.

"Fine," she whispered. "I'll call him."

She walked past her mother, not meeting her eyes, and trudged up the stairs to her room. She closed the door, leaned against it, and slid down to the floor.

She buried her face in her hands. She had escaped a killer in the hospital, only to come home to this. She was trapped. Trapped by her job, trapped by her family, trapped by the expectations of everyone around her.

And the worst part was, she had no idea how to get out.