Mark Sloane watched her work quietly from the gallery during the surgery. Everybody else looked at her like the love of her life died, but he knew that she didn't want to be looked at like that.
He knew that she didn't want anybody to look at her at all.
But he watched her anyway, a different look in his eye. A look like a snake on the prowl. He didn't care how long it had been since she lost her boyfriend, how long she'd had to mourn, she was weak and vulnerable.
So easily there for the taking that it was painful.
He watched quietly as they closed and he saw her move from the OR, slow, pained, the walking wounded and he decided it was time to make his move.
Cristina pulled the mask from her face, and then the scrub cap, letting her curls fall gently to her shoulders and she let out a long exhale as Mark stepped into the room next to her, "Dr. Yang." He mumbled quietly.
"Dr. Sloane."
She pulled the gown from her body, weak and weary from the amount of vomiting she'd done in her first morning back at work, and she felt his eyes on her as she threw it in the trash.
Cristina turned, expecting to find another set of sad eyes, another set of eyes pitying her, thinking her pathetic for even coming back to work so soon. Eyes that accused her of being weak, vulnerable. Eyes that accused her of being uncaring.
But his eyes were different.
His eyes were hungry, lustful, needy.
Mark Sloane was not looking at her like everybody else was. He looked at her like she was a woman, and not an object of sorrow.
She let the corners of her lips curl into a slight smile, "Can I help you with something?"
He stepped closer to her, accepting the smile as an invitation for more, his voice low and husky, "The question is, can I help you with something?"
She looked to him, and something took over her body, that was unexpected, she began to ache for physical contact. Her emotions washed away and she backed out of the scrub room, Sloane quickly in tow.
Cristina pushed open the door to the call room, and he locked it behind him as he stepped in, tugging his pants down.
There were no words to be said, and he pressed his lips against hers, and she turned away, her own lips searing under his, so he moved his mouth down further, trailing his tongue down her neck and her flesh burned as he did so.
She felt her pants coming down over her hips, and she did nothing to fight it. It was too late for turning back now.
He moved into her and she stifled a gasp of horror, as reality became all to painful at that moment. She felt her the ring that he left for her in the pocket of her scrubs, pressing hard against her skin under Sloane's weight, tearing through her conscious like a 10 blade.
It had only been three weeks.
What was she thinking?
What was she doing?
She wanted to push him away, to push him out of her, to make it stop.
Her body screamed under his touch, her skin felt like it was ripping itself from her body, it wasn't supposed to hurt like this, it was all wrong, it was too much, it wasn't enough.
It wasn't Burke.
She felt him release himself deep within her and she wanted to vomit again, she felt dirty, used.
She felt as if she had betrayed him.
Her feet met the floor and she pulled at her pants, trying to cover herself, as he looked at her, another notch in his belt.
Another conquest.
And he smiled at her, knowing what he'd done, but his eyes were cold and uncaring, and he left her there to wallow in her own misery and filth.
She pulled the ring from her pocket and forced it back on her finger, her heart heavy with guilt and she slid down the wall, bringing her head to her hands as the tears began to flow.
It had only been three weeks.
Her heart was racing, her stomach churning. Tears marred her scrubs, and she looked to her skin, trying to see if there was a physical sign of the dirt and the filth that she felt on the inside, like her blood had been muddied.
He'd only been gone for three weeks.
She felt weak, drained, her body exhausted. She felt what little energy she had in her reserves empty from her body in that moment.
Something else was wrong.
She wasn't just a whore, there was something else wrong with her.
Silently she wished for it to take her, and she closed her eyes, waiting for death to come and steal her away.
But the door to the call room opened instead and she tried to look up, but her head was too heavy, and her eyes would not open.
Her world faded around her and the last thing she felt was the cold tiled floor against her hot skin.