Doctor Slave Novels & Stories

Then, with a slow, purposeful spin, it turned and Salish almost forgot how to breathe. Doctor D was a literal Ken doll come to life. His blonde hair fell in effortlessly perfect waves, his piercing blue eyes glimmered mischievously under thick lashes, and his sculpted jawline could cut glass. His tailored shirt seemed to be battling to stay buttoned over a torso that belonged on a fitness magazine cover. Broad shoulders, a powerful chest, and a waist you’d need two hands to appreciate. “Ms Salish? Welcome to my clinic.” Oh wow, even his voice sounded masculine. It was so deep, so rich and so sexy…

"I know what I’m feeling." ‘Do you?’ my wolf challenges. I ignore him, but the tightness in my chest doesn’t ease. Suddenly, my phone buzzes. The name flashing across the screen makes my stomach twist… It's Dr. Vance. One of the best orthopedic specialists across all packs. I grab the phone quickly and answer. “Tell me you have good news,” I say, skipping the pleasantries. There’s a long pause on the other end — the kind that only ever means bad news.

"How about this? You tell me what someone like you is doing at a hospital on a Friday afternoon, and we'll call it even." "I just got a job here. Assistant doctor in general surgery. I start Monday." "Assistant doctor?" Charles looked impressed. "St. Catherine's doesn't hire just anyone. You must be good." "I was top of my class," Sophia said, and then immediately wondered why she had said that. Why she was still standing here. Why she hadn't walked away yet. But she didn't walk away. And neither did he. "Well, Assistant Doctor Sophia Reed, top of her class," Charles said, his eyes twinkling. "I'm a surgeon here. General surgery department, actually. So it looks like we'll be seeing a lot of

One has a clinic website that hasn't been updated since before I was married, which tells me something, though I couldn't say precisely what. The fourth is Dr. Amara Osei. Her practice is listed under a quiet street in the city's northern quarter. The clinic's registration is current. Her credentials include a subspecialty notation in supernatural maternal care that the other three do not. There are no photographs on the website, no curated testimonials. Just the qualifications and the address and a phone number. I call at half past nine. The appointment is at two. ---

SCARLETT I looked up Harlan’s doctor last night, Dr. Beatrice Wensworth, lead cardiologist at Lonsdale International hospital, and it’s safe to say I will not be paying her a visit. Her services are as expensive as her bougie last name. She has a two-thousand-five-hundred-dollar consultation f*e, and apparently, only the top two percent of the world’s population can afford to get medical care at Lonsdale. So no, thank you.

I’ve been coming to Dr. Vale for months. Private clinic. Sports injury that never quite healed. He’s thirty-nine. Tall, broad-shouldered, always in a white coat over a fitted shirt that hugs his chest. Dark hair with a touch of silver at the temples, calm voice, steady hands. Everyone calls him professional. I call him the reason I keep “forgetting” my pain meds. Today the waiting room is empty. Late appointment. He locked the door after the nurse left. Just us in the exam room. Lights low. Paper on the table crinkling under me as I sit in nothing but a thin gown.

She looked up from the screen, her dark eyes locking onto his with absolute, freezing defiance. "This proves absolutely nothing, Mateo," Isabella stated, her voice dead flat. She took a step forward, forcing him to hold his ground. "I am a trauma attending. I was called in to treat a catastrophic gunshot wound, and I did my job. My medical oath does not change based on the zip code of the patient."