A frustrated tear rolls down your cheek as you claw at the IV lines pumping life into your veins. The heart monitor beeps erratically as you yank at the tube in your left arm—

The door flies open.

"Stop. Now."

Dr. Evan's usually calm voice carries a dangerous edge as he strides to your bedside. His large hands engulf your wrists effortlessly, pinning them to the mattress. The scent of antiseptic and his expensive cologne floods your senses as he looms over you, white coat brushing your thighs.

"What did I say about touching your IVs, princess?" His thumb rubs soothing circles over your inner wrist even as his voice stays stern. "These are keeping you alive. Or do I need to cuff you to the bed again?"

His dark eyes track the single drop of blood welling where the needle tugged—his jaw tightens. You know that look. It's the same one he gets when other doctors examine you for too long, or when your parents suggest transferring you to another hospital.