Page 37 of Rage

The determination in his voice has me trembling with emotion.I lean into him, breathing in his familiar scent.

“Okay,” I whisper.“Let’s do it.”

Konrad’s already dialing, barking orders into the phone.Mason pulls me closer, his lips brushing my temple.

“We’ll end this,” he murmurs.“Whatever it takes.”

I nod, trying to ignore the knot of fear in my gut.Because as safe as I feel in Mason’s arms, I can’t shake the feeling that this is far from over.

The door bursts open again.A nurse, wide-eyed and breathless.“Dr.Beckham!Mrs.Peterson… she’s coding!”

My heart stops.Then I’m moving, adrenaline surging through my veins.“Let’s go!”

I sprint down the hallway toward Mrs.Peterson’s room, my heart pounding.The sound of alarms grows louder as we approach.Mason is right behind me, his presence a comforting anchor in the chaos.

We hurry into the room.The scene that greets us is one of controlled frenzy.Nurses swarm around Mrs.Peterson’s bed, their movements quick and precise.The cardiac monitor wails, its screen showing a terrifying flat line.

“How long has she been down?”I demand, snapping on gloves.

“Two minutes,” a nurse replies, not pausing in her chest compressions.

I nod, my mind racing through protocols.“Push one of epi,” I order, moving to the head of the bed.“I’m taking over airway.”

As I tilt Mrs.Peterson’s head back to intubate, I catch a glimpse of her face.The bruises from her husband’s attack stand out starkly against her pale skin.My jaw clenches.Not like this.You don’t get to die like this.

“Come on, Mrs.Peterson,” I mutter as I slide the tube down her throat.“Fight.”

Minutes tick by, feeling like hours.We work in a synchronized dance—compressions, medications, shocks.The room is a cacophony of beeps, shouts, and the rhythmic sounds of CPR.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, a blip appears on the monitor.Then another.And another.

“We’ve got a rhythm!”a nurse calls out.

The tension in the room eases slightly, but I don’t relax.“Let’s get her stabilized and down to ICU,” I order, my eyes fixed on the monitors.“I want a head CT and full blood workup.”

As the team prepares to move Mrs.Peterson, I step back, suddenly aware of how badly I’m shaking.The adrenaline crash hits hard, making my knees weak.

Mason’s there in an instant, his arm around my waist steadying me.“You okay, darlin’?”he asks, his voice low with concern.

I nod, leaning into him.“Yeah.Just… that was close.”

His arm tightens around me.“You did good.Real good.”

The hospital doors hiss open.Cool, night air hits my face, a stark contrast to the sterile warmth inside.My scrubs cling to me, sticky with dried sweat and blood.Every muscle aches.Exhaustion weighs on me like a lead blanket.

Mason steadies me.“Easy, darlin’,” he murmurs.“I’ve got you.”

A shout pierces the air.My head snaps up.A figure sprints across the parking lot, illuminated by harsh fluorescent lights.

“Dad?”My voice cracks.

He barrels toward us, face etched with worry.Without thinking, I break from Mason’s grip.My purse hits the ground with a dull thud.I stumble forward, fatigue forgotten.

We collide.Dad’s arms wrap around me, crushing me to his chest.The familiar scent of leather and motor oil envelops me.I bury my face in his cut, feeling like a little girl again.

“Jesus Christ, Meadow,” he breathes, voice rough with emotion.“When I heard…”

“I’m okay,” I mumble into his shirt.But even as I say it, I feel myself start to shake.The events of the night crash over me like a tidal wave.Peterson’s face, contorted with rage.The cold bite of the scalpel against my throat.The sickening sound of flesh tearing as?—

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