Chapter 3 - BLOOD UNDER THE BANDAGES
Consciousness returned in jagged waves of white-hot agony.
I woke to the rhythmic beep of a cardiac monitor and the faint scent of cedar and expensive tobacco. I wasn't in a public hospital. The floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows, the Italian leather armchairs, and the impenetrable reinforced steel doors told me I was inside the private medical suite on the top floor of Blackthorne House.
"You have six cracked ribs, a shattered clavicle, and a collapsed right lung," a deep, gravelly voice spoke from the shadows near the corner.
I turned my head slowly, every nerve ending screaming in protest.
Dominic sat in a high-backed chair, his tuxedo jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms scarred from old blade fights. Dark circles bruised the hollows beneath his eyes, but his gaze was sharp as a scalpel. On the mahogany side table next to him lay a manila folder, thick with documents.
"Caleb..." my voice came out as a raspy croak.
"Sleeping in his room. He refused to close his eyes until the surgeon confirmed your vitals stabilized," Dominic said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "He keeps asking when his hero is coming back."
"I just... did what anyone would do."
"No," Dominic interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, deadly and low. "A nanny runs. A maid screams. A trained combatant identifies the line of fire, calculates the bullet trajectory in 0.4 seconds, and shields the target with vital-sparing body rotation."
My heart rate jumped. The monitor spiked in response.
Dominic stood up, pacing slowly toward my bedside. He placed his fingertips on the foot of the bed. "The trauma surgeon had to remove three 9mm hollow-point rounds from your torso. Do you know what he told me while he was cleaning the wound bed, Mara?"
I held my breath, staring at him.
"He said you had four old bullet exit scars along your hip and back. Two surgical repair lines on your abdominal wall. And an altered ridge pattern on your ten fingerprints that makes matching you in the national registry mathematically impossible."
Dominic picked up the manila folder and dropped it onto the blanket over my legs.
"So tell me, Mara Ellis," Dominic leaned down until his face was mere inches from mine, the heat of his breath grazing my lips. "Who the hell did I just invite into my home to raise my son?"
May you like
Before I could construct a lie, the emergency lights flashed amber. The bedside intercom buzzed frantically with the chief of security’s panicked voice: "Boss! We’ve got an external breach at Gate 4. A courier delivered a package addressed strictly to 'Evelyn'—and it's ticking."
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