The Colonel’s Favorite by Tessa Kelwyn
The Colonel’s Favorite
Description
Dr. Stella Alistair's career is hanging by a thread after a scandal at an elite clinic. With nowhere else to go, she volunteers for the one position no one wants: field surgeon at a remote military base in a combat zone. It's supposed to be her last stand-a chance to prove herself before her medical license is permanently revoked. But when she arrives, she comes face-to-face with Colonel Arthur Ironwood-the man she shared a scorching one-night stand with a year ago. The same man who made her feel safe enough to confess her deepest fears, then vanished before dawn without a word. Now he's her commanding officer, and he's pretending they've never met. Forced to work side-by-side in a zone of constant danger, their explosive chemistry reignites. But the military's strict no-fraternization policy isn't just a rule-it's a career-ending guillotine. For Stella, one report of misconduct means losing her medical license forever. For Arthur, it means court-martial, dishonorable discharge, and losing the only family he has left: his unit. Caught between duty and desire, they're playing with fire. And General Pendhalton is watching their every move.
Chapter 1
May 21, 2026
Stella’s POV
The sterile white walls of Dr. Morrison's office had never felt quite so suffocating.
I sat across from my supervisor, watching her practiced expression of administrative sympathy.
Her lips pressed into a thin line of regret that didn't reach her eyes, the slight furrow between her brows that said she'd already made her decision before I'd even sat down.
"Dr. Alistair, you must understand the position the hospital is in."
Morrison's fingers drummed against the glossy surface of her desk.
"The Whitmore family provides thirty percent of our annual funding. Thirty percent. When their son makes... allegations about your conduct during his consultation…"
"Allegations? He grabbed my ass during a routine physical and suggested we could work out his 'tension' in more creative ways."
I kept my voice level, professional, each word precisely chosen.
"When I told him to get his hands off me, he threatened to have me fired. Those aren't allegations, Dr. Morrison. That's harassment followed by retaliation."
Morrison's expression flickered—a brief moment of genuine discomfort before the administrative mask slid back into place.
"Be that as it may, the Whitmores are threatening to pull their funding entirely if you remain on staff. The board has made it clear that we can’t protect you when surgical wings and research programs hang in the balance."
The words settled over me like a diagnosis I'd been expecting but hoping to avoid.
"However."
Morrison leaned forward, her fingers steepling together.
"I've managed to negotiate a compromise with the Whitmore family. If you issue a public apology to their son by the end of today, they've agreed to let this... incident pass."
Apologize to the man who'd grabbed my ass. Apologize for defending myself.
Stand in front of my colleagues and debase myself for the privilege of continuing to work in a place that would sacrifice me the moment it became convenient.
"I'll need some time to think about it." I stood, smoothing down my lab coat with deliberate care.
"Of course. But remember: the deadline is five PM today. After that, the offer expires."
I left her office with my spine straight and my expression controlled, but inside, fury and humiliation warred for dominance.
I walked through the hospital corridors on autopilot, my mind churning through impossible options.
My feet carried me down a hallway I rarely used. I was about to turn back when something caught my eye. A single sheet of paper, slightly yellowed, pinned among the usual cafeteria menus and wellness seminars:
URGENT: FIELD MEDICAL OFFICER NEEDED
Military Contract Position
Remote Base Assignment
Immediate Placement Available
The posting had been there so long that someone had drawn a crude skull and crossbones in the corner. Another person had written "SUICIDE MISSION" across the top in red marker.
It was the assignment everyone knew about and no one wanted—the one that had been vacant for six months because anyone qualified enough to do it was smart enough to refuse.
I stared at that piece of paper, and something clicked into place. Better to leave on my own terms than be thrown out like trash.
I pulled the posting off the board, folded it carefully, and headed back to Morrison's office. When I walked in without knocking, she looked up with poorly concealed hope.
"Have you made up your mind already?"
"I have." I placed the folded paper on her desk. "I'll volunteer for the military field medic position."
Morrison's practiced sympathy vanished, replaced by something that looked almost like hunger.
"Dr. Alistair, that posting is... Surely you're not serious. The conditions are brutal, the danger is real, and frankly, that assignment is meant for physicians with nowhere else to go."
"Then it's perfect for me, isn't it?" I kept my voice steady, not giving myself time to reconsider. "I assume you can expedite the paperwork?"
She studied me for a long moment, and I watched her mental calculations play out across her face. "If you're certain about this decision, I can have you processed within the week."
"I'm certain."
The enthusiasm with which Morrison accepted my volunteer status should have been my first warning.
Within three days, I found myself on a cargo transport heading toward coordinates I could barely pronounce, my entire life condensed into two regulation duffel bags.
The journey stretched across endless hours of rattling transport vehicles and brief, uncomfortable stops at checkpoints that grew progressively more austere.
I spent most of the transit time reviewing the thick packet of military regulations and base protocols—dry, bureaucratic language that outlined my new reality in exhausting detail.
One particular clause made me pause, then read again more carefully. Section 7.3: Fraternization Policy.
The prohibition of romantic or sexual relationships between military personnel was not merely discouraged—it was explicitly forbidden, the text underlined and bolded for emphasis. Violation of this policy constituted grounds for immediate dismissal and potential court-martial.
I traced my finger over the words. The severity seemed almost medieval for a modern military operation, but I supposed order and discipline required clear boundaries.
Not that it mattered to me. I wasn't here for romance or connection, but because I'd run out of better options.
The transport lurched to a final, grinding halt. Through the dusty window, I could see the base sprawling across the landscape.
The base was a collection of reinforced structures and temporary buildings that looked simultaneously permanent and impermanent, as if the whole installation might fold up and vanish at a moment's notice.
Wind whipped across the tarmac as I stepped out.
A group of uniformed soldiers approached to greet the new medical officer. I adjusted my glasses against the wind, squinting at the figures moving toward me with military precision.
I recognized ranks and insignia from my crash course in protocol, could identify the adjutant leading the greeting party…
Then I saw him.
My entire world tilted on its axis, equilibrium shattering like dropped glass.
Colonel Arthur Ironwood stood among the soldiers, towering over them with that same overwhelming physicality I remembered from a night I'd tried desperately to forget.
Dark eyes like obsidian, broad shoulders that seemed to block out the sky, the kind of presence that made everything else in my peripheral vision blur into insignificance.
The man from that incendiary one-night stand a year ago. The man who'd made me feel small and safe and utterly consumed before disappearing before dawn without explanation, without even a note left on cold hotel sheets.
My breath caught in my chest. For one suspended moment, I waited for recognition to flash across his face—surprise, acknowledgment, anything that confirmed I wasn't hallucinating from exhaustion and stress.
But Arthur's expression remained completely blank. His gaze swept over me with the same dismissive assessment he might give a requisition form or supply manifest. Not a flicker of recognition. Not even basic courtesy.
He turned instead to his adjutant, his voice cutting through the wind with barely concealed irritation. "What is she doing here? Where's the doctor we requested?"
The adjutant, a lean man with lieutenant's bars and an expression of barely concealed discomfort, shifted his weight. "Sir, this is Dr. Alistair. From the civilian medical corps. She's the field surgeon assigned to…"
"I can see what she is, Lieutenant." Arthur's jaw tightened, his dark eyes never once moving back to acknowledge my presence. "I asked where's the doctor we requested. We put in for someone with combat experience, someone who understands field conditions."
"The requisition was filled through volunteer placement, sir. Dr. Alistair's credentials are…"
"I don't care about credentials." Arthur finally looked at me, and the weight of his gaze hit like a physical force. But there was nothing in those obsidian eyes except a cold assessment.
My fingers tightened around the handles of my duffel bags. Every instinct screamed to fire back, to put this arrogant bastard in his place.
But all I could do was stand frozen on the windswept tarmac, my duffel bags heavy in my hands.
My mind drifted against my will to that night a year ago—to the upscale bar where I'd first seen him and the moment when everything had felt possible instead of ruined.
The Colonel’s Favorite
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