Page 131 of Bleed with Me

“Male, approximately forty years old,” the paramedic reported while the stretcher rolled into the bay. “High-speed motorcycle collision. Found unconscious at the scene. Hypotensive, significant blood loss, suspected internal bleeding. We intubated en route.”

I stepped forward, my gaze sweeping over the injuries. Blood soaked the patient’s clothes. Road rash covered most of the exposed skin. His left leg was bent at an angle that made my stomach tighten.

“Current pressure?” I asked.

“Seventy-eight over forty and dropping,” came the response.

“Get blood ready,” I ordered. “Two units immediately.”

The words left my mouth on instinct, hands working automatically, but then my eyes reached his face.

The floor disappeared beneath me. For one horrible second, my brain refused to process what it was seeing.

No!

Dark hair matted with blood. Sharp cheekbones. The face I had known my entire life.

“Holy shit,” Melody whispered beside me.

My lungs forgot how to work. The monitors screamed. Someone called out another pressure drop. A nurse asked me something, but I couldn’t comprehend a single word. All I saw was Malin lying motionless on the stretcher, his skin unnaturally pale beneath the blood smeared across his face.

Not Malin.

Anyone but Malin.

“Dorian.” Melody’s voice sounded far away. “Dorian!”

The sharpness of her tone cut through the fog. Years of training took over before panic could.

“Move,” I barked. “Trauma Bay Two. Now.”

The team immediately sprang into action.

“Abdomen is rigid,” Melody said while helping transfer him onto the hospital bed. “Possible internal bleed.”

“Possible?” I snapped. “He’s practically bleeding out in front of us.”

“Dorian.” She caught my arm before I could move toward the ultrasound. “You can’t operate on him.”

The words hit harder than they should have, because she was right. Every hospital policy. Every ethical guideline. Every lecture I’d ever attended said the same thing.

Don’t operate on family.

My gaze shifted toward the hallway beyond the glass doors. On the other side of the emergency department, Watson was already disappearing toward the operating rooms with the first trauma patient, surrounded by residents, nurses, and enough chaos to keep him occupied for hours.

“And who exactly should do it?” I asked, pointing to the other side. “Watson?”

Melody followed my gaze, and her jaw clenched.

“Fuck!” She cursed when a monitor shrieked again. Malin’s blood pressure was dropping, his heart rate climbing. Time was running out.

“If we wait for another trauma surgeon to get here,” I turned back to Malin, “he dies.”

The words tasted like poison, because they weren’t an exaggeration; they were a fact.

Melody looked at my brother, then at me, and finally released a slow breath.

“Damn it,” she muttered, reaching for an intercom.