Kiren goes still. “No.”
“I’m not asking,” I reply, using the authoritative tone I use in trauma bays when someone’s ego interferes with care. “Leave.”
His eyes search my face, then move briefly toward the curtain, where I know Ethan is listening for any reason to come back in swinging. Kiren’s posture stiffens, but he doesn’t argue again. He nods once.
“As you wish,” he answers, his voice low.
He steps back, his dark brown eyes still on me. “I’ll be nearby.”
“No,” I insist. “Go.”
Kiren holds my gaze for another second, then inclines his head and turns. He pushes the curtain aside and steps out. I stare at the fabric after it falls back into place, my heart pounding hard enough that I can feel it behind my ribs.
Ethan appears a second later, pushing the curtain aside with a glare that could cut through concrete. “Is he gone?”
“Yes,” I answer.
Ethan’s shoulders loosen a fraction, but his eyes stay intense. “Who is he, Ro? Really.”
I swallow, then answer with the only truth I can offer without unraveling everything. “A man I met recently.”
Ethan’s expression suggests he doesn’t accept. “That doesn’t explain why he showed up like he owns the hospital.”
“I know,” I murmur.
Ethan studies me for a long moment, then lowers his voice. “Do you want me to call the police?”
The question forces me to face a reality I don’t want to face. If this is intentional, if my brakes were tampered with, then the police become part of the picture. Reports. Investigations. Attention. Exposure. A widening circle that pulls in my mother, my coworkers, and my entire life.
“I don’t know what I want yet,” I admit quietly. “I only know I’m tired of feeling like I’m one step behind whatever is happening.”
Ethan’s eyes soften for a moment, worry breaking through his anger. “I’m not leaving you.”
“I know,” I smile weakly.
After he steps back out to make a call to his supervisor and check on paperwork, I stare at the ceiling and force my breathing to slow. Kiren’s presence lingers in the bay even after he’s gone, like a handprint on a surface you can’t clean off. My anger remains, but doubt begins to creep in around it.
If he’s right, then the SUV this morning wasn’t a coincidence. The door wasn’t my imagination. And the brakes weren’t a random failure. If he’s right, then last night wasn’t the only reason he entered my life. If he’s right, then the line between my world and his has already been crossed, and I don’t get to pretend I can step back over it untouched.
I close my eyes and let the monitor’s beeping guide my breath, even as my mind returns to the moment the brake pedal dropped to the floor and failed. And for the first time since I woke up in my apartment this morning, I stop trying to push Kiren out of my thoughts. Because I can no longer tell whether he’s the danger or the warning.
8
KIREN
The live hospital feed runs on my office monitor, unauthorized access routed through systems that were never meant to serve me. I’m aware of that. I ignore it.
Rowan appears in the frame as the elevator doors slide open. She isn’t walking out on her own. A nurse guides the wheelchair carefully over the threshold, her hands light on the handles, and her posture attentive in the way medical staff reserve for patients they respect. Rowan’s shoulders remain straight beneath her coat, her chin lifted, and her expression composed despite the stitches tracing along her face. She looks irritated rather than fragile, like someone tolerating assistance because it was required, not because she needed it.
Ethan walks at her side, close enough to reach her without crowding her. His hand hovers near the chair's armrest, never touching unless the nurse pauses or adjusts course. He leans in to say something I can’t hear, and Rowan turns her head justenough to respond. Whatever she replies draws a visible tension through his jaw, the posture of someone already protective and alert.
I watch them as they move through the corridor, past the security desk, toward the exit. Rowan’s eyes stay forward. She doesn’t scan the space or look for threats. She trusts the building, the process, and the rules that say she is safe now because the doctors have cleared her to leave.
Ethan pushes the chair out to the curb and opens the passenger door himself. He waits until she’s settled before moving the wheelchair. He hands it off to the nurse, then circles back to check Rowan’s seatbelt before closing the door as though he won’t leave her exposed, even for a moment. When he gets behind the wheel, he looks around the lot once, a slow sweep that tells me he senses risk even if he can’t define it.
They pull away from the hospital, and I already know where they’re headed. Rowan’s apartment, along familiar streets and predictable turns. The same route she’s taken a hundred times after long shifts. She’ll rest because the discharge papers tell her to. She’ll heal because she believes recovery follows structure. She’ll plan her return to work even though she’s not cleared yet because medicine is where she exerts control over chaos.
What she doesn’t know is that she won’t be alone. Two of my men are already positioned near her building. Not visible or intrusive, but present. One parked down the block with a clear view of the entrance. Another positioned where he can track movement through the alley and rear access without drawing attention. They are there to watch, not to interfere.To intervene only if the world proves itself unworthy of her trust.
