Caleb watched us with sudden interest.
Melissa stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Do not let one unusual moment confuse you about your position here.”
My position.
Inventory.
Back hallways.
The nurse they sent in because my body, to them, made me useful as a shield.
I looked at her carefully. “My position is wherever the patient needs a nurse.”
Her mouth opened.
The intercom crackled overhead.
“Nurse Bennett to surgical recovery. Nurse Bennett to surgical recovery.”
Melissa’s face tightened.
I did not wait for permission.
Vincent woke just before dawn.
The recovery room lights were dimmed, the blinds drawn halfway against the first blue hint of morning. Machines hummed softly. Rain tapped against the windows in a gentle, restless rhythm. Caleb sat outside the door, visible through the narrow glass panel, refusing every cup of coffee offered to him.
Vincent’s fingers moved first.
Then his eyes opened.
For half a second, confusion clouded them.
Then awareness struck.
His breath caught. His body tensed against bandages, tubes, and unfamiliar sheets. The monitor spiked sharply.
“Vincent,” I said, stepping into his line of sight. “You’re in recovery. Surgery is finished. You’re alive.”
His eyes found me.
The panic did not vanish, but it slowed.
“You’re in a hospital bed,” I continued. “Your ribs and shoulder are bandaged. No one is touching your skin. Caleb is outside. Dr. Imani is nearby. You are safe.”
His breathing remained rough.
“Nora?”
“Yes.”
His eyelids lowered briefly, as if the confirmation cost him something.
Then he looked down at my wrist.
The marks had darkened.
His face changed.
“I hurt you.”
“No.”
“I grabbed you.”
“You held on.”
“That’s the polite version.”
“It’s the accurate version.”
His gaze moved over my face, searching for fear or flattery or accusation. I gave him none.
“Why did you stay?” he asked.
“Because you asked me to.”
“People usually don’t.”
There was no self-pity in the statement. That made it hurt more.
I checked his IV line. “People usually weren’t trained by my grandmother.”
His brow moved slightly.
“She used to say, if someone asks for help while drowning, you don’t ask whether they deserve water.”
Vincent watched me as if he did not know what to do with that.
The door opened quietly.
Caleb entered, stopping several feet from the bed. His hands were empty and visible. Maybe he had learned from watching. Maybe he had always known and simply been helpless to use the knowledge.
“You look terrible,” Vincent rasped.
Caleb let out a breath that sounded dangerously close to relief. “That’s touching, boss.”
“You let them bring me here.”
“You were unconscious and bleeding through my jacket.”
“Excuses.”
Caleb smiled faintly, then looked away.
For all his size, all his hard edges, he looked shaken.
“Who did it?” Vincent asked.
The room changed.
Caleb’s eyes flicked toward me.
Vincent noticed. Even half-conscious, he noticed everything.
“Say it.”
“Not now.”
“Caleb.”
The warning in Vincent’s voice was thin but still present.
Caleb looked at the monitor, then at me, then back at Vincent.
“The men at the warehouse weren’t outsiders.”
Vincent went utterly still.
The monitor began to climb again.
I stepped closer. “This conversation can wait.”
“It can’t,” Vincent said.
“It can. Your body just filed a complaint with every machine in this room.”