Chapter 2 - The Midnight Stitch
Emma snapped on her sterile gloves, refusing to let him see her hands shake.
She cut away the ruin of his fine white shirt. The wound was raw and angry—a graze from a high-caliber round that had torn through muscle across his lower ribs, missing his spleen by less than an inch. Blood trickled down his marble-pale skin, pooling at his belt line.
"This needs local anesthesia," she said, pulling a syringe of lidocaine.
"Skip it," he said flatly. "Just sew."
"It’s going to hurt."
"I’ve felt worse. Sew."
Emma hesitated, then set the syringe aside. She cleaned the tear with betadine, watching him closely. He didn't flinch. He didn't groan. He simply watched her face, tracking every twitch of her eyes, every subtle movement of her hands, as if studying a rare, unfamiliar creature.
"Who shot you?" she asked quietly, threading the curved suture needle through the clamp.
"Occupational hazard," he replied.
"You should be in trauma bay one getting an X-ray to check for tissue fragments."
"I don't have time for X-rays, Nurse Shaw. And you don't have time to ask questions you don't want the answers to."
She pulled the needle through his flesh, tying the first neat, precise knot. The muscle beneath her hands twitched once, but he didn't utter a sound. His self-control was unnerving.
"You're very precise," he noted smoothly. "Most nurses would have panicked by now."
"I've worked the overnight shift here for four years," Emma replied, pulling another stitch tight. "I've seen gunshot victims, gang fights, and abusive husbands. The blood doesn't scare me. It's the arrogance of men who think they're immortal that gets exhausting."
A tiny, razor-thin smirk touched the corner of his lips. "Julian," he offered softly.
"What?"
"My name. Julian."
"I didn't ask."
"I know. That's why I gave it to you."
She finished the ninth and final stitch, cutting the thread clean. She applied antibiotic ointment, covered it with a thick pad, and wrapped medical tape securely around his torso.
"You're done," Emma said, stepping back and snapping off her bloody gloves. "Don't lift heavy objects for two weeks. Keep it clean. If it swells or bleeds through, go to a real urgent care."
Julian stood up slowly, adjusting his coat over his shoulder. Despite the blood lost, he moved with lethal grace. He looked down at her, towering over her small frame in the cramped stall.
"You refused my money," Julian said, his grey eyes piercing hers. "Why?"
"Because my integrity isn't for sale," Emma said firmly. "Now leave before Dr. Patel decides to check on us."
Julian stepped closer, his scent—expensive cologne mixed with rain and gunsmoke—filling her senses. "Integrity is an expensive luxury in a city like this, Emma Shaw."
He turned and pushed through the curtain, his heavy bodyguard following closely behind.
When Emma walked out into the corridor three minutes later, curtain four was completely empty. The gurney was bare. The bloody shirt was gone.
Dr. Patel walked past, checking his watch. "He gone?"
"Yes," Emma murmured.
May you like
"Good. Clock out, Shaw. You look like hell."
Emma grabbed her coat from the breakroom, her body numb with sheer fatigue. As she stepped out of the hospital double doors into the freezing 3:00 a.m. air, she couldn't shake the chilling sensation of his grey eyes resting on her back.
