Dr. Reeves sighed. “Fine. But you stay out of the way and let us work.”
They transferred Tashi to an ER bed in a curtained-off section that smelled like antiseptic and desperation. Nursesmoved with efficient precision—blood pressure cuff, IV line, oxygen saturation monitor, the choreography of emergency medicine playing out around us.
I stayed at the head of the bed, still holding her hand, watching her watch me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Embarrassment? Gratitude? Fear?
My phone buzzed.
Leo:Hotel’s secure. Guests are settled. Media’s already sniffing around. What do you want me to tell them?
Me:Nothing.
Leo:We can’t say nothing.
Me:Then tell them we can’t comment until the fire marshal has completed their investigation.
Leo:That’s worse. Makes us look like we’re hiding something.
Me:That’s the truth. And every real journalist out there knows it.
Leo:Fair. I’ll handle it. How’s our girl?
Our girl. The phrase hit differently than it should.
Me:Stable. Waiting on test results.
Leo:Good. Ares is losing his mind over the security breach. You know how he gets.
Me:Give me regular reports.
Leo:Aren’t you coming in?
Me:I’m not leaving her alone in a strange hospital.
Tashi George lay in the hospital bed with an oxygen mask, her dark curls matted with sweat and smoke. Her jacket hung from the back of a nearby chair, soot-streaked and scorched along the cuff.
A nurse checked her vitals, and I stood just outside the threshold of the hospital room, pretending I wasn’t imagining how soft her skin would feel beneath my palm. I should havestayed in the waiting room. Instead, I stood there watching her like a man who didn’t know better.
The pulse monitor beeped steadily. Her chest rose and fell in deep, shaky breaths. When she adjusted her position, her tank top shifted slightly, and I saw a flash of the photo she’d accidentally sent me. The image had burned through my phone and directly into my bloodstream.
I’d seen women pose. I’d seen women tease. This wasn’t that. It was raw, emotional, furious. A digital fuck-you from a woman who’d been pushed too far. And she sent it to the wrong people.
Or maybe the right ones.
My phone buzzed. I closed my eyes, willing the flood of heat in my chest to be just anger. Not panic. Not the primitive roar of territorial possessiveness that hadn’t let go since I carried her down those hotel stairs.
I turned and strode down the hall to the corner of the waiting area, thumbing a reply to Ares with lethal calm.
Me:Pull security footage. Elevator, hallway, anyone near her suite in the last 24 hours. I want names by the hour.
Ares:Copy. Already started.
I pocketed the phone and let the tension roll off my shoulders like smoke off a flame. Then I made the mistake of returning to her doorway to gaze at her again. Tashi. She shifted on the hospital bed, her thighs exposed beneath a navy-blue blanket, her fingers twisting the oxygen tubing. Her eyes met mine for half a second—wide, wary, still ringed with smudges of black liner and ash. She gave me a tiny nod. And that was it.
I stepped inside.
“How are you feeling?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
She pulled the mask down. “Like a baked potato. But less crisp.”
