Ivan strode confidently through the hidden entrance, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor as if he’d done it a thousand times. The door slid shut behind us with a soft hiss, sealing us inside this secret medical wing.
Two people in scrubs appeared at the end of the hallway, pushing a gurney toward us. They moved with quiet efficiency, their faces professionally blank, with no name tags, no hospital logos on their uniforms—nothing to identify them.
“Room three is prepped,” the woman said, her voice clinical. “Dr. Clark will be with you in a second.”
Room Three. So they had at least three rooms down here?
“Good,” Ivan replied, his chest rumbling against my ear. “She has a head laceration and has lost consciousness; she needs immediate attention.”
I kept my body limp while they waited as Ivan gently placed me on the gurney. The cool surface pressed against my back, and I fought the urge to shiver.
They wheeled me down the corridor, then turned into a room—sterile and white like everything else in this hidden facility.
Ivan didn’t leave my side even while the nurses bustled around, attached monitors, and prepared equipment. His presence was both infuriating and oddly reassuring.
“Where the hell is Dr. Clark?” Ivan’s voice carried an edge I hadn’t heard before—tension mixed with something that sounded almost like concern.
“He’s finishing with another patient, sir. Shouldn’t be more than five minutes,” the female nurse replied.
Ivan made a sound of frustration, pulling up a chair beside my gurney. The metal legs scraped against the floor as he positioned it close to my head. Then, unexpectedly, I felt his warm hand envelop mine.
My pulse jumped involuntarily, and I saw the nurse glance at the monitor. Shit.
“Her heart rate just increased,” she noted clinically. “She might be regaining consciousness.”
Ivan absently stroked the back of my hand with his thumb. The gesture was so gentle that I nearly forgot to keep my breathing steady.
The nurses left, and we were alone.
Ivan’s grip on my hand tightened slightly. “I’m sorry you got hurt,” he murmured, so quietly I almost missed it. “But I’ll make sure you’re going to be okay.”
I couldn’t tell if he was talking to me or reassuring himself.
His phone buzzed. He ignored it the first time, but when it buzzed again immediately after, he cursed under his breath. “Dammit,” he muttered, still holding my hand as he checked the message with his free hand.
I felt his body tense beside me.
“Fuck,” he whispered, then louder: “Fuck.”
He squeezed my hand once more before reluctantly releasing it. The loss of his warmth was immediate and jarring.
“I have to go,” he said, standing abruptly. “But I’ll be right back.”
It was interesting how he was suddenly talking to me when he basically ignored me on the ride here. I heard his footsteps retreat toward the door and him pause there. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone,” he added as if I could hear him. Wait, did he know I was just faking it?
Then the door opened and closed, and he was gone.
The moment the door shut, my eyes snapped open. I waited five more seconds, counting each heartbeat to make sure he wasn’t coming back, then pushed myself upright.
The room spun sickeningly. I gripped the edges of the gurney, waiting for the vertigo to pass. Shit, maybe I needed to have my head checked out. The wound on my temple throbbed in time with my racing pulse, but I forced myself to focus.
I slid off the monitor from my finger, then slid off the gurney until my bare feet hit the cold tile floor. The door was my first target—locked, of course. I checked the frame, and there was some kind of high-tech automatic locking mechanism. I shouldn’t be surprised, but the confirmation sent a spike of panic through me anyway.
“Think, Bella,” I muttered to myself, scanning the room.
A framed evacuation plan hung beside the door. I studied it, memorized the layout—three corridors, two stairwells, one elevator. My current location was marked with a red X. If I could get out of this room, I’d have options.
But first, I needed to get out.
