Chapter 2 - THE WAKING
His grip was like iron.
For eighty-nine days, I had washed this man’s skin. I had turned him every two hours to prevent bedsores. I had watched his chest rise and fall with the mechanical hiss of the ventilator. He had been a shell, a hollowed-out vessel of a man that the world had already written obituaries for.
But right now, his hand around my wrist was trembling with a terrifying, desperate strength.
“Don’t let her leave,” Dominic Vale rasped, his voice sounding like crushed gravel.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I stared into his eyes—dark, storm-gray, and wild with a panic that did not match the hardened lines of his face.
“Dominic,” I whispered, keeping my voice painfully low. I didn't reach for the call button. Something in his eyes told me that pressing it would be a mistake. “Dominic, you’re in Mercy West. You’ve been in a coma. There is no one else in this room.”
His jaw tightened. The monitor beside his bed chirped faster, betraying his agitation. He pulled me closer, his strength failing but his willpower absolute.
“Not here,” he choked out, his breath ghosting over my wrist. “Lily. Don’t let her leave.”
Lily.
The name hit the air between us like a dropped glass. In all the news reports, all the federal gossip, all the scandalous articles about the port king of Boston, there had never been a mention of a woman named Lily. And certainly not a child.
“Who is Lily?” I asked, my clinical training fighting a losing battle against my human instinct.
Before he could answer, the heavy click of the door handle echoed through the quiet room.
Dominic’s eyes widened. With a speed that terrified me, his hand released my wrist. He shoved something small and hard into the deep pocket of my blue scrubs. Then, in a fraction of a second, his eyes rolled back, his jaw went slack, and his body melted into the mattress.
He flatlined his expression. He went back to being a vegetable.
The door swung open.
It wasn't the senior nurse. It was Dr. Aris, the private neurologist from New York who flew in twice a week. He stepped into the room, followed closely by one of the dark-suited men who guarded the door.
“Nurse,” Dr. Aris said, his voice as smooth and cold as a marble floor. “You’re here late.”
“I was just finishing his turn,” I lied smoothly, tucking my hands into my pockets. My fingers brushed against the small, hard object Dominic had slipped me. “His vitals spiked for a moment. Just a reflex.”
Dr. Aris walked to the bedside, shining a penlight into Dominic’s unresponsive eyes. Dominic didn't even flinch. It was a masterclass in survival.
“Reflexes,” Dr. Aris murmured. “Yes. The brain is a cruel organ. It gives false hope.” He turned to me, his smile not reaching his eyes. “Draw up four milligrams of Lorazepam. We need to suppress these neuro-spasms before they cause a seizure.”
Four milligrams.
My blood ran cold. Four milligrams of Ativan for a severe TBI patient who had supposedly been comatose for three months would suppress his respiratory drive. It would put him so deep under he might never wake up. Or it would kill him.
“Doctor,” I said, forcing my tone to remain respectful. “Hospital protocol requires—”
“My protocol supersedes the hospital’s, Clara,” Dr. Aris interrupted, glancing at my nametag. He looked back at the man in the suit. “He is a danger to himself. Administer the dose. Now.”
The suited man stepped fully into the room, blocking the door.
I looked at Dominic’s motionless face. The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. These men weren't here to protect the billionaire shipping magnate from his enemies.
They were his enemies.
They were keeping him a prisoner in his own body.
“Of course, Doctor,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “I’ll get the medication.”
I walked past the suited man, my heart threatening to burst from my chest. The moment I was in the hallway, I ducked into the supply closet and pulled the object from my pocket.
It was a silver, heavily tarnished pocket watch.
My hands shook as I pressed the latch. The watch didn't tell time. The face was smashed. But tucked inside the lid was a tiny, folded piece of paper. I opened it.
Locker 42. South Station. Find her.
May you like
I stared at the paper. I knew I had to go back in there with a syringe. I knew Dr. Aris was waiting to put Dominic away forever.
And as I reached for a vial of harmless saline, praying I could swap it without them noticing, the supply closet door suddenly clicked shut, locking me inside in total darkness.
