Chapter 2 - Blood and Iron
The quiet that followed Marcus Reed’s hasty exit was heavy enough to drown out the low hum of the ER fluorescent lights. Marcus didn't look back; he practically scrambled through the automatic glass doors, his left wrist hanging limply at an unnatural angle.
The wounded stranger didn't chase him. He simply stood in the middle of Bay Seven, his breathing shallow, his knuckles white against his coat. The front of his crisp white shirt was now entirely stained dark crimson.
"He's gone," Naomi said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline hammering in her chest. She turned her attention immediately to the stranger. "And you're going to bleed to death in my emergency room if you don't sit down."
The man looked at her, his dark gray eyes piercingly sharp despite the lethal blood loss. A faint, shadow of a smile touched his lips. "I’ve survived worse than a stray blade, Nurse Vale."
"I don't care what you've survived. Sit." Naomi grabbed a pair of trauma shears and a tray of sterile dressing from the cart, her instincts taking over.
Before he could answer, his knees buckled. Naomi caught him under his shoulders, absorbing his weight—he was solid muscle, built like an iron beam—and guided him smoothly down onto the examination table. Dr. Patterson peeked into the bay, his face pale with panic.
"Naomi, who was that man? Do you have any idea who you just allowed to assault a hospital donor's son?!" Patterson stammered.
"Doctor," Naomi snapped, not looking up as she cut away the ruined silk shirt, exposing a deep, jagged laceration near his ribcage. "You can fire me tomorrow. Right now, hold pressure on this wound before my patient flatlines."
Patterson froze, caught between terror of hospital politics and his ancient oath as a physician. But the stranger slowly tilted his head, fixing Patterson with a gaze so cold it halted the doctor in his tracks.
"Leave us," the stranger ordered softly. "Or I will purchase this hospital by morning and fire you myself."
Patterson backed out of the room without another word, drawing the curtain closed.
Naomi worked swiftly, swabbing the deep wound with antiseptic. "You have a habit of threatening people who hold your life in their hands?"
"Only those who deserve it," he murmured. "I’m Dominic Thorne."
Naomi stopped for a fraction of a second. Dominic Thorne. The name was whispered in boardroom trade journals and urban legends alike. A self-made billionaire, real estate tycoon, and reputedly the undisputed Don of the Thorne Syndicate—a shadowy organization that controlled every dock, ledger, and high-rise in the tri-state area.
"Well, Mr. Thorne," Naomi said, driving a curved suture needle cleanly through his skin to bind the deep fascia. "Your money won't stop an infection, and your reputation won't stop you from hemorrhaging. Hold still."
Dominic didn't flinch as she stitched him without local anesthesia. His eyes never left her face. "You didn't hesitate back there. Most nurses would have called security and let that coward break her wrist."
"Most people are taught to look away," Naomi replied tightly. "I wasn't."
"Marcus Reed isn't just an arrogant boy with money," Dominic warned, his voice dropping into a raspy, lethal whisper. "He's the youngest son of Arthur Reed—the chief magistrate of the regional courts. He thinks he owns the city because his family buries bodies for the wealthy. When he asked 'They?', he wasn't talking about street thugs."
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Naomi tied off the suture with surgical precision. "I don't care who his family is."
Dominic leaned forward slightly, ignoring the pull on his fresh stitches. "You should care, Naomi. Because Marcus Reed was only the first name on a very dangerous list."
