She’d seen worse.
But not like this.
Not the way he watched her, like he was memorizing everything. Not with those eyes that didn’t beg or plead but measured. Calculated.
She wiped the blood off her glove onto the side of the gurney and turned away sharply.
“Get him ready for CT,” she barked.
Behind her, Victor Roman lay silent, chest rising and falling in sharp, pained jerks under new white bandages.
She didn’t look back.
Because she wasn’t sure she wanted to see him watching her anymore.
Chapter three
Chapter 3 – Not Fragile
Pain was the first thing to greet him when he clawed his way to consciousness. A hard, insistent ache that seemed woven into the fibers of his body, as if the mattress itself had conspired to grind broken glass into his ribs. Even before he opened his eyes, he was aware of the throb in his leg—a deep, ugly pulse like a second heartbeat—and the tight band of agony wrapping his chest whenever he breathed.
His eyelids felt like sandpaper. He forced one open with effort, the fluorescent glare of the overhead fixtures slicing into his skull like scalpels. He groaned and squinted against the brightness.
The ceiling above him was white, but aged, hairline cracks spreading from the center fixture like a spiderweb someone had tried to paint over half a dozen times. He tracked the lines with his gaze, unfocused, noting how they trembled with the small quakes of his breathing.
The room smelled like antiseptic and something floral, sharp enough to make his nostrils twitch. Lavender, he guesseddistantly, though it was the industrial kind, meant to disguise rot and fear, not soothe anything real.
Definitely a hospital.
Victor Roman clenched his teeth. He hated hospitals. Hated the way they hummed with restrained panic, the hush that wasn’t true silence but a waiting quiet, ready to explode at any moment with screaming and alarms.
He let out a slow exhale that scraped his lungs raw. The beeping of a heart monitor accompanied it, obnoxiously regular. He turned his head slightly, wincing as pain rippled through his torso, each broken rib screaming in protest.
And there it was—the IV line, clear tubing snaking into his arm. The tape felt too tight on his skin, medical adhesive biting at the small hairs of his forearm.
He glared at it.
Slowly, deliberately, he moved his hand, fingers curling around the line, ready to rip it out. He’d done it before. More than once. He’d watched nurses turn white and flinch when he sprayed his own blood onto their scrubs.
But this time he didn’t get the chance.
A hand snapped around his wrist, fingers strong, pressing tendons against bone.
“Touch that line,” said a voice just above him, low and clear, “and I’ll sedate you just for fun.”
It was a woman’s voice. Firm. Dry. Unimpressed.
He turned his head with effort, the muscles in his neck pulling like overstretched cables. The movement sent another bolt of agony across his ribs.
And there she was.
Her.
Hair braided this time, not the messy bun he half-remembered from the side of the road. The braid was loose, wisps of vivid red escaping and catching in the harsh light like embers. Shewore clean navy scrubs, the neckline marked by a faint ring of dampness where sweat had soaked in. There were circles under her eyes that even concealer couldn’t hide, evidence of too many hours on shift.
Her gaze was flat as polished stone.
“Don’t test me, Roman,” she added, voice uninflected.
