The Devil Wears Scrubs Book 2 Novels & Stories

And for a minute, I just sit there, glaring at the ceiling like it owes me rent. Then, I glance to my right. And there it is. The only good thing about today. Devil’s Muse. A thick, absolutely sinful romance novel I pulled from the stack of books Janet got from the hospital library. The kind that has zero shame and maximum plot twists. The kind that doesn’t ask me to heal or forgive myself or do the inner work. No. This book asks me to shut up and watch the enemies-to-lovers pair absolutely ruin each other emotionally and then physically—with very vivid, very illegal levels of detail.

Her nerves tightened, her trembling fingers interlocking around the device as she stared at the screen in utter shock. While she was drowning in a whirlwind of doubt and confusion, the phone vibrated again in her hands, receiving a second message from the exact same number: "Prosperity suits you so well... and I will grant you many times more than this apartment." Here... tension turned into something far worse than fear.

I let out a painful sigh , just glad that all that is scarred is my back. “Those scars make you look even more irresistible…” I hear the devil’s voice echo with in bath room which I am currently in. I feel the scars on my back begin to burn as the memories of him slashing me with the collar comes to mind – it is as if I can still feel the warm leather coated with my blood , and the smooth gems with pointy edges dig in to my skin. I lower my head , not wanting to see the look of satisfaction on his face.

She screamed over the loud music and we immediately started downing our shots. I swallowed the last one, feeling the intensified burning sensation down my throat to my stomach. I felt a little dizzy but I was sitting so I was still in control of myself. "Wanna go somewhere quiet?" I heard from my left. Turning towards the direction of the voice, I saw a blonde beside Dean. Her body was glued to his side with her boobs almost spilling out from the v-neck crop top she had on. "Nah... I'll pass". Dean responded with a voice laced with lack of interest.

Nathan says before he leaves. Damian comes downstairs not long after and sits on the other couch with one of my books. My heart constricts when I realise that it's the book Danielle used to steal from me, The Picture of Dorian Gray. I feel like an asshole for not always thinking about her. I'll never forget about her, but I feel like I've moved on too early. I glance at Cole when he's looking at me concerned. He sees the book and he must realise what I'm thinking about.

A wave of strong energy swirled around me before he spoke. "What’s the point of being a demon when you can’t use illusions to your advantage?" A devil’s smirk tugged on his mouth, and his eyes blazed red for a second before they went back to normal. "All they see is the sexy librarian helping a man look for books. They will never find out that the sexy library was about to let the man with her devour her perfect breasts."

Chapter Twenty Three **Days Later** I sat in the chair in front of my Doctor as she looked over all of my files and tapped things into her computer. The noise of the keys as she hit them seemed to echo so loudly in the small room. It was almost deafening. ‘So, Everything looks good’. She told me, still not taking her attention away from the computer screen. ‘And your stitches have all dissolved so that’s good too. No infection or irritated skin..’ I wasn’t even sure if she was talking to me or herself so I just nodded and kept silent.

I swallowed hard, my face burning. I grabbed my glass and downed the last drops in one gulp, the fizz burning its way down. I slammed it on the nightstand, the clink echoing in the tense silence. “What the fuck are you on about?” I snapped, yanking my chin free but not moving away. My voice was breathy, my entire body buzzing. Damian set his own drink aside, half-full. “This.” He yanked open the nightstand drawer and fished out that cursed book: The Devil’s Little Bane.

Night Two The second night did not begin with silk or shadows, but with the sterile hum of imagined machinery. The master bedroom had been transformed again, this time into a surgical theater of the mind. The air was cool, scented faintly with antiseptic and ozone, a stark contrast to the warmth of the previous evening. Julian stood beside the bed, now draped in a pristine white sheet that served as an operating table. He wore no suit, only simple cotton trousers and a sleeveless undershirt that exposed the scars on his shoulders and arms—marks earned in the boiler room, the clock tower, the oak’s hungry roots. His hair was damp, his expression focused, clinical. This was not the Interrogato