BUT DID YOU DIE?
Preston reads it out loud. His voice drips with disdain.
"Charming," Preston says, looking at me. "Is that a philosophical inquiry, or a standard of care?"
I grin, leaning against the fender. "It’s a liability waiver, kid. Keeps the passengers from complaining about the suspension."
Preston scoffs, trying to hide an amused smirk. He looks me up and down. "And the mud? Is that a stylistic choice, or did you drive here through a swamp?"
"It’s a tactical vehicle," I say. "Keeps the resale value low so no one steals it. You should try it on the Jag sometime."
Preston blinks. He was expecting me to be offended. He wasn't expecting me to be amused.
"Mother is inside terrorizing the catering staff," Prestondeflects, turning back to the house. "She’s already sent the soup back twice. Good luck with... that."
"Wonderful," Maxwell mutters. He puts a hand on the small of my back—a proprietary, protective gesture that sends a jolt of heat through my coat—and guides me inside.
The inside of the house smells like pine, expensive wax, and judgment.
A butler takes our coats. I resist the urge to salute him.
"Maxwell!"
A voice booms from the library. A man steps out. He is tall, silver-haired, and wearing a velvet smoking jacket. He looks like Maxwell in thirty years, if Maxwell stopped caring about saving lives and started caring about accumulating yachts.
Dr. Alistair York. The esteemed retired Neurosurgeon.
"Father," Maxwell says. He stiffens beside me.
Alistair ignores his son completely. He walks straight to me. He looks me up and down, taking in the fit of the suit, the scar on my neck, the way I’m standing.
"You must be the Trauma surgeon," Alistair says. He extends a hand. His grip is iron.
"Dr. O'Connell," I say, squeezing back just as hard. "Jax."
"Trauma," Alistair muses. "A bit... reactionary, isn't it? No finesse. Just plumbing and duct tape."
"I like to think of it as high-speed chess with blood, sir," I say smoothly. "Any idiot can fix a problem when the patient is paralyzed and the room is quiet. Trying to fix a brain while the patient is fighting you? That takes a special kind of... craft."
Alistair pauses. A gleam of interest sparks in his eyes. I played to his ego perfectly.
"Chess," Alistair repeats. He smiles. It’s a shark’s smile. "Come into the library, O'Connell. I want to ask you about field amputations. Maxwell, go find your mother. She’s vibrating."
Maxwell looks panicked. "Father, I?—"
"Go," Alistair commands. He puts a hand on my shoulder and steers me toward the library.
I look back at Maxwell. I wink.I got this.
The library is dark wood and leather. It smells of old paper and serious money. Alistair pours two glasses of amber liquid from a crystal decanter.
"Fifty-year-old single malt," Alistair says, handing me a glass. "Don't put ice in it or I’ll have security remove you."
"Neat is fine." I take a sip. It tastes like smoke and peat. "Smooth."
Alistair leans against his massive mahogany desk, swirling his glass. He doesn't sit. He watches me, his eyes sharp and calculating. He’s not looking at me like a guest; he’s looking at me like an investment he’s considering shorting.
"You don't seem terrified," Alistair observes. "Most people who walk into this room are terrified. It’s designed that way. The ceiling height alone usually induces a mild inferiority complex."
