Page 185 of Devil Mine

A thrashing noise comes from outside, this time much louder than previously. The sound of distressed voices follows, clamoring unintelligibly for something. It seems like the situation is escalating.

“What the hell is going on out there?” I demand, my mind clear now that the code is out of the way.

A nurse exits to assess the situation and comes back minutes later with an upset expression on his face. “It’s the victim’s husband, Doctor,” he tells me. “Pardon my French but he’s losing his shit out there and demanding to see her. The furniture’s bearing the brunt of his anger.”

I can only imagine the agony of waiting for news about your loved one, not knowing whether they’re going to make it or not, not knowing whether to hope or grieve and caught in that unbearable moment of suspension between both.

“Is the surgical team ready for us?” I ask.

“Yes, Doctor. Dr. Whiteshaw is ready to operate.”

“Finish prepping the patient and I’ll go talk to the husband. Winter, you’ve got this?”

“Sure do, Doc.”

Snapping my gloves off and removing the surgical gown, I dispose of both in the bin before taking a deep centering breath and walking out into the private waiting area.

The first thing my gaze catches on are the two chairs and side table strewn in the middle of the hall, completely at odds with the usual clinical cleanliness of the hospital. Then my eyes lift to the large, intimidating man who’s furiously pacing at the other end of the hallway. He’s wearing all black but he’s covered in blood. I can smell it even from over here. How he can stand to be drenched in his wife’s blood is beyond me. He rakes anguished hands through his hair, pausing only to accost hospital staff as they come through the area.

Half a dozen equally terrifying men and women surround him, not quite flanking him but clearly ready to intervene if necessary.

Who the hell is this guy?

“WHERE IS MY WIFE?” he roars at a passing nurse, livid with fury. “They wouldn’t let me in the ambulance with her. She’s been here for twenty minutes and no one will tell me where the fuck she is or how she’s doing.” Two of the men grab his arms, holding him back from destroying the reception desk. “Take me to her before I start tearing this hospital apart and find her myself.”

The nurse freezes in fear, cowed by his formidable presence, but she’s already lost his interest.

The man’s gaze snaps over to me when he notices me standing in the hall. He takes one look at my scrubs and the way I stare back at him and charges towards me. Having him descend on me with single-minded purpose is akin to standing in front of an angry bull and waving a large red flag, but I don’t let him scare me.

The irritation that’s locked my spine since I saw him yelling at the staff and causing a scene evaporates in an instant when he gets closer and I gaze into the open pools of despair that are his eyes. There’s an immense amount of pain contained in his tormented stare, pain he doesn’t bother to conceal away. It radiates off him.

I clear my throat. “Are you Tess Noble’s husb–”

“Is she dead?”

My heart leaps into my throat at his swift interruption. The question is clinical in wording but delivered with such visceral,rawemotion it punches me in the gut. The air is tense around him, thickened by his misery.

His gaze pings wildly between my eyes, desperately searching them for an answer I haven’t given him yet. His shoulders are tense, like he’s bracing himself to receive the worst news of his life. It tells me everything I need to know about him; this is a man who wouldn’t survive the death of his wife.

“No.”

His face crumples, his expression fracturing like fine china.

A broken moan slips past his lips and then his entire body sags forward in relief. His shoulders slump and his head bows as the anger abruptly drains out of him, leaving behind only a gut-wrenching combination of fierce sorrow and frail hope. He runs a shaky hand over his face, obscuring his eyes from me as he takes in a deep, haltering breath and composes himself.

“Are you her husband?” I ask gently.

He nods, working to control his emotions.

“Da Silva,” he finally says, face still in his hand. “Her name is Tess da Silva. She’s my wife.”

His voice cracks on the word ‘wife’.

I already know she is, but he says it with the vehemence of someone who used the word “soulmate”, as more a designation of exactly what she means to him than a legal classification of their partnership.

The last name registers only secondarily, as does the realization of who I’m dealing with. There’s only one man with that last name in this town and he’s not someone to be crossed.

But it doesn’t matter to me if he’s a random man off the street, the King of England or the Pope himself, the standard of care Tess is receiving is the same regardless of who he is.

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