Page 89 of Beneath the Surface

A nurse stepped forward, deftly collecting the blood and moving it into labeled vials before hurrying out of the room. Another nurse worked on inserting a nasogastric tube into Isobel’s stomach, her hands sure and gentle.

Brad’s voice cracked as he spoke from the corner, his presence barely acknowledged, “How bad is it?”

Tristan didn’t look up, his jaw tight. “It’s bad,” he muttered under his breath. He glanced at the monitor briefly. “Her core temperature is dangerously low. She’s hypothermic. We’re warming her from the inside out.”

A second nurse inserted a catheter into Isobel’s bladder, connecting it to a bag of warmed saline. The lead nurse on thetrauma team stood back. No signs of rape,” she said aloud, her voice flat but tinged with relief.

Brad exhaled sharply, the words momentarily lifting a weight from his chest. But the reprieve was short-lived.

“There are signs of torture.” Tristan carefully cleaned and dressed the raw wounds on her wrists, his hands steady despite the tension in his shoulders. “She’s been beaten badly. Dehydrated. Starved. Her lungs are full of fluid—pneumonia. We’ll start her on bi-pap to stabilize her airway.” He barked orders to a nearby respiratory therapist, who quickly set up the machine.

The room filled with the rhythmic beeping of monitors and the faint hiss of oxygen. Tristan secured the bi-pap mask over Isobel’s bruised face, adjusting the straps carefully to avoid causing more pain. He glanced at a nearby nurse. “Keep her oxygen saturation above ninety. If it drops again, I’ll intubate.”

Brad stepped closer, his voice shaking. “Tristan… is she going to make it?”

For the first time, Tristan looked up, his eyes locking with Brad’s. They were bloodshot, filled with determination. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “She’s fighting, but she’s been through hell. It’s going to take everything we’ve got—and everything she’s got—to pull her through.”

Brad swallowed hard, his throat dry. “You have to save her.”

Tristan nodded curtly, his focus returning to his patient. “I’m not giving up on her. Neither should you.”

Another nurse spoke up, her tone urgent, “Heart rate’s stabilizing, but her blood pressure is still low. Could be early septic shock.”

Tristan cursed under his breath. “Damn it. Hang two units O-negative blood. And add a broad-spectrum antibiotic—let’s cover for everything.”

The nurse nodded and moved quickly to comply. Tristan adjusted the monitor’s settings, his every movement deliberate. “We’ll treat her like she’s septic until we know otherwise,” he said, his tone clipped. “Start her on a norepinephrine drip to maintain her blood pressure.”

Brad felt like the walls were closing in. Every beep of the machines, every movement of the medical team was a reminder of how close he was to losing her. “She said my name,” he whispered. “Before she passed out. She said my name.”

Tristan didn’t answer immediately, his focus on adjusting the flow rate on the IV line. After a long moment, he glanced up again. “Then she knows you’re here,” he said simply. “That’s something.”

The words hit Brad like a lifeline, a fragile thread of hope. He nodded, gripping the edge of the counter as he fought to stay grounded.

One of the nurses stepped back, tearing off her gloves. “We’ve done what we can for now. It’s up to her body to respond.”

Tristan straightened, his gaze still fixed on Isobel. He rubbed a hand over his face, the tension etched into every line of his features. “We’ll monitor her closely. But, Brad…” he hesitated, searching for the right words, “she’s not out of the woods. Not by a long shot.”

Brad nodded. “Just tell me what I can do.”

“Stay here,” Tristan said. “Let her know she’s not alone. She’s been through hell, and knowing you’re here might be what keeps her fighting.”

Brad pulled up a chair beside the bed, his hand trembling as he reached for Isobel’s. Her skin was cold and fragile, but he held it tightly, as if his grip could anchor her to life.

“I’m here, Belle,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Tristan glanced at him and saw his wounded arm. “Let me treat you. You can’t afford an infection.”

Brad nodded.

Charlotte Everhart arrived moments later, her face streaked with tears, and Alex moved to her side, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Izzy’s alive,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “She’s alive.”

Charlotte collapsed into his arms sobbing, her relief mixing with grief. Alex held her, his own heart heavy with the emotions swirling inside him. They had saved Isobel. But the fight to bring her back from the brink was far from over.

Thirty-Four

The hospital room was bathed in natural light, the faint hum of monitors and the rhythmic beep of Isobel’s heart rate the only sounds breaking the stillness. For ten days, Brad had barely left her side. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, his clothes rumpled from hours spent in the stiff hospital chair. The doctors and nurses had grown accustomed to his presence, and considering the circumstances, the hospital had been lenient about visitation.

Brad leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together. Isobel lay still in the bed, her body looking smaller, frailer than he ever thought possible. Her eyes had opened briefly over the past few days, responding to simple commands—squeezing his hand or blinking when prompted—but she remained distant, her gaze unfocused, as if she was trapped somewhere far away.

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