Read Novel Full Chapter 810: Lost Hearts in One Place
Chapter 810: Lost Hearts in One Place
She thought concussion delirium. Traumatic brain injury. Something she could treat with protocol and ice and a call to the ER if it got worse.
She was wrong.
From that day forward Peter Carter walked like he’d stolen someone else’s gravity.
Head up. Shoulders loose. Eyes steady. The bruises stopped arriving because the fists stopped swinging. Jack Morrison—king of cruelty, lord of hallway beatdowns—looked at Peter once after that day and suddenly found new hobbies. Like avoiding eye contact.
And Peter started talking to her.
Not nurse-patient script.
Real shit.
About hypovolemic shock protocols not taught until paramedic year. About the cytochrome P450 interactions that could turn acetaminophen into liver failure. About fibrinolytic cascades like he was discussing last night’s Netflix. He spoke about human physiology the way old surgeons talk about patients they lost thirty years ago—half grief, half ownership.
She started manufacturing reasons to walk past his classroom.
He flirted.
Not with crude lines or dick pics or "you’re too pretty to be a nurse" garbage.
He flirted like a fucking sniper.
A look that lingered two seconds too long. A compliment buried inside a question about wound debridement technique. The way he stepped just close enough that she could smell cedar and antiseptic and teenage boy sweat and still feel professional about it—until she couldn’t.
She said yes to coffee.
4:30. The little place on 7th with the mismatched chairs and no high-schoolers. Her pulse hammered in her throat when the word left her mouth. Ethics screaming wrong wrong wrong, loneliness screaming finally.
Then Trent happened.
Emma—Peter’s little sister—got cornered. Bad. The kind of bad that turns coffee dates into background noise and reminds you the boy you’re falling for isn’t just smart and pretty and hung like a felony.
He’s a brother.
The kind who’ll walk into a burning building made of teenage cruelty and come out carrying someone else’s kid sister on his back.
And fuck if that didn’t make her want him worse.
The coffee never happened the way she’d planned it to be.
But something else did.
It wasn’t dramatic. No slamming doors. No confessions under rain. Just... inevitability.
One day she was the school nurse who hated herself for wanting a student.
The next she was his.
Not because he forced her. Not because he manipulated her. Because he saw her.
The bone-deep loneliness she’d carried since she was eight and realized love was something other people got. He didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t spout therapy-speak. Just sat with it. Let it breathe. Let her be hollow without calling it pathetic.
He saw the good-girl armor—perfect grades, perfect smile, perfect compliance—and quietly handed her a crowbar.
Told her it was okay to want.
To take.
To be fucking greedy.
He saw the real Luna underneath: the one who hummed off-key when she thought no one could hear, who hoarded lip gloss like it was emotional body armor, who cried over patients she couldn’t save even though she pretended it didn’t gut her.
He wanted all of it.
Her brain. Her body. Her silences. Her stupid humming. Her naivety and innocence. Her softness.
And when he finally touched her—really touched her—it wasn’t fumbling teenage urgency.
It was devastating.
Every awkward hook-up she’d ever had turned to ash in comparison. He learned her like a textbook he’d already memorized—then rewrote every Chapter with his mouth, his hands, his patience, his hunger.
He didn’t just fuck her.
He claimed her in ways that made her feel owned and free at the same time.
So she belonged.
Not to the job. Not to the rules. Not to the version of herself she’d spent nineteen years performing.
To him.
To the boy who used to bleed on her floor every week.
To the man who now bled her dry in the best possible way—and filled her back up every single time.
[Her Room (The Present)]
The second floor of Peter’s estate always felt like a storybook version of reality—quiet, warm, and way too beautiful for something you could casually walk through on a Tuesday night.
Luna stepped off the staircase and into the long hallway that stretched across the entire east wing. The walls were that soft creamy-ivory shade interior designers used when they wanted a place to feel expensive but still homey. Gold-trimmed sconces lit the way, casting a warm glow that made the marble floors shine like they were holding starlight under the surface.
Eight doors lined this side of the hall—not just eight but eight on each side—each belonging to one of the women who lived here. Each doorway carried its own vibe, its own personality. One room smelled faintly like vanilla. Another always had music leaking from underneath. Another door had a tiny crystal sun-catcher hanging from the handle, throwing rainbows on the floor.
The hall had a kind of quiet pride to it—like the mansion knew it was sheltering women Peter treasured, and it wasn’t shy about showing off.
Luna smiled without realizing it.
This place wasn’t just luxury. It was belonging.
And she loved being one of Peter’s women. Part of something bigger. Something warm. Even if she didn’t say that out loud, it lived right there in her chest.
She hummed to herself—some silly tune she’d picked up earlier in her life—as she passed the first four rooms, mentally greeting her sisters as she went. She was playful like that, always imagining they could somehow hear her if she waved in her head.
Her room was the fifth door on the left.
It always pulled her like a magnet.
The moment she opened her door, the air shifted. Her room smelled like soft florals and vanilla body mist—like someone had bottled "Luna" and left it on a shelf to breathe.
The bots had changed it per request.
The room itself was big enough to fit a house for a family of three.
Her bed dominated the space: a massive California king with a plush white duvet and too many pillows, half aesthetic, half comfort.
The headboard was soft beige upholstered piece that made the whole bed look like it belonged in some expensive Pinterest dream board. A light rose throw blanket sat at the edge—the exact shade that made her blush every time Peter called her "pretty girl."
The walls were muted rosy-beige. Feminine, but grown. The kind of color that made you feel soft without feeling childish. Lighting bounced off her mirror collection, creating tiny reflections around the room like captured stars.
A framed picture of Peter, her and her sisters sat on the nightstand—all of them hugging her in the middle during her first week here. She was smiling so big it crinkled her eyes.
She pretended she kept it there for decoration.
Everyone knew she adored it.
Her bathroom was its own world.
Pale gray marble floors veined with white, heated from below so warmth greeted her bare feet like a hug. A wide vanity stretched across the left wall with a backlit mirror so smooth it made her skin look flawless even after crying. Her makeup drawer slid open automatically when she got close—a feature she called "kind of extra" even though she loved it.
The shower was enormous—real "walk in and twirl" energy—with three shower heads: rainfall from above, gentle mist from the side, and a detachable one she claimed she used "strictly for practical reasons."
The freestanding tub sat under a frosted window, soft natural light filtering through. A wooden tray across it held bath salts, a candle, and a book she kept pretending she’d eventually finish.
Everything smelled like lavender and eucalyptus.
Feminine. Serene.
Hers.
She stripped and stepped into the shower, letting hot water pour over her until her shoulders relaxed and her breathing slowed. Warmth wrapped around her like a blanket.
This was her favorite part of the day: shedding everything—stress, exhaustion, the ache from bending over patients all shift. Under the water, she let herself be silly. Humming horribly off-key. Dancing her shoulders while shampooing her hair like she was in a music video no one would ever see.
She loved herself in these small, ridiculous moments.
After rinsing, she stepped out and wrapped a towel around her body. She wiped a heart shape into the fogged mirror—a habit she’d never admit to because it made her seem too soft. Too in love.
But she was in love.
Proudly.
At the vanity, she moisturized her face, still humming. Dabbed perfume behind her ears. Paused to smile at her reflection—not from vanity, but because she was finally living a life where she felt safe. Protected. Wanted.
She slipped into soft clothes—a loose pastel top and comfy shorts—something that made her feel cute but relaxed. Then she sat at the edge of her bed, brushing her hair, while the enormous tv played she and her sisters usually recorded.
She loved them.
She loved this home.
And she especially loved the man whose world she now belonged to.
The girl who had everything except warmth had finally found it.
Not in the expensive schools her mother’s money bought. Not in the degrees her mother’s connections arranged. Not in the boyfriends who wanted her body but never her soul.
In a boy who saw her.
In a family she chose.
In a room that smelled like vanilla and florals and belonging.
The mansion fit her.
Her room embraced her.
And Luna, for once in her entire life, felt exactly where she needed to be.