Chapter 6 - The Blood and the Broth
The subterranean safehouse beneath The Bowmont was a cold, windowless vault of concrete and steel, smelling of rubbing alcohol, iron, and damp earth.
When Tessa hurried through the heavy steel door, she found three private doctors hovering helplessly six feet away from a leather sofa. On the sofa sat Ronan.
His shirt was torn open, soaked in dark crimson blood. His jaw was set tight, his skin deadly pale, sweat pouring off his forehead as he held a heavy tactical pistol in his left hand, pointing it directly at the head medic.
"Get away from me," Ronan growled, his feverish eyes wild and bloodshot. "Touch me with that needle and I’ll put a bullet through your eyes..."
"Mr. Callahan, please!" the doctor pleaded. "The bullet fractured your shoulder blade! If we don't extract it and stop the infection, you will go into septic shock!"
"Ronan!" Tessa’s voice cut through the tense room like a bell.
Ronan’s eyes flicked toward the door. The wild, feral glare in his eyes flickered, softening slightly as he saw her standing there, wet from the rain, holding her small tin spice box.
"Tessa..." he rasped, his hand shaking as the heavy gun lowered two inches. "What are you... doing here?"
Tessa walked straight past the terrified doctors, ignoring Diego’s warning hand. She knelt directly on the cold concrete beside his sofa, laying her soft hand over his large, trembling hand—the hand holding the gun.
"Put the gun down, Ronan," she whispered, her thumb gently stroking his blood-stained knuckles. "You told me to cook your dinner tomorrow. How are you going to eat if you let yourself die in this dark basement?"
Ronan stared down at her face. The fever was making his vision blur, but her presence was a solid anchor in the raging storm of his pain. Slowly, his fingers loosened. The heavy pistol clattered onto the floor.
Tessa picked up the gun, handed it to Diego, and turned to the head doctor.
"Operate now," she ordered sharply. "I’ll stay right here."
For two grueling hours, Tessa sat beside the sofa, holding Ronan’s uninjured hand while the doctors cut into his shoulder, extracted the lead slug, and stitched the damaged muscle. Ronan didn't make a sound. Every time a wave of agony racked his body, his grip on Tessa’s hand tightened until her bones ached, but she didn't pull away once.
By 5:00 AM, the surgery was complete. The doctors bandaged his chest, administered antibiotics, and stepped back to monitor his vitals.
Ronan lay back on the pillows, exhausted, his fever beginning to break. He looked at Tessa, who was sitting on a small wooden stool beside his bed, wiping his sweaty forehead with a damp cloth.
"You should be resting," she said softly.
"Why did you come?" Ronan asked, his voice weak but clear. "You could have stayed in your apartment. You could have let my men handle it."
Tessa stopped wiping his brow. She looked into his pale grey eyes, feeling a deep, undeniable warmth blooming in her chest.
May you like
"Because a long time ago, I lost everyone I cared about," Tessa said quietly. "And when I saw you looking at that empty plate on Thursday night... I realized I couldn't bear to watch another person I care about disappear."
Ronan reached out his hand, his fingers tangling softly with hers. "I am not going anywhere, Tessa. Not while you are still cooking for me."
