Page 71 of The Devil's Wrath

“Okay. I lo—” But the line went dead before I could finish.

Sighing, I slipped my phone back into my pocket and stared out my window while Cavan drove me to the hospital. Once inside, I made my way to the locker room, putting my bag in my locker before heading to the nurse’s station to start my shift.

Hours passed in a blur, and by the time my break rolled around, my feet ached and my head throbbed. I found a quiet corner in the cafeteria and pulled out my phone, hoping to see a message from Theo.

Nothing.

Disappointment settled heavily in my chest. I tried to push away the nagging worry and remind myself that Theo had committed to certain obligations long before he’d met me. He had responsibilities to his father and The Brotherhood, and I might never be able to understand that. But still, a part of me longed for his reassurance, for some sign that I was more than an afterthought amidst the chaos of his life.

Sighing, I picked at the bland cafeteria food. My appetite had been absent the past week, likely because of lack of sleep and Theo’s absence. I tried forcing myself to eat a few bites but felt nauseous. Throwing my food into the trash, I headed back to the floor. A wave of dizziness washed over me as I approached the nurse’s station. I gripped the wall for support, taking deep breaths until the room stopped spinning. One of the other nurses, Maya, noticed my distress and rushed over.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yeah, just a little lightheaded. I’ll be fine.”

She frowned, obvious dissatisfaction in her expression. “Why don’t you take a few minutes and drink some water before you head back onto the floor.”

I followed her advice and sat down, sipping from my bottle of water. The cool liquid helped settle my stomach a bit. “Thanks, Maya,”I said with a weak smile. “I think the extra shifts and no sleep is catching up to me.”

She studied me closely. “You’ve been looking pale and tired lately. Are you sure everything is alright? You know you can talk to me if something is going on.”

I hesitated, torn between the desire to confide in someone and the need to keep the tumultuous details of my life with Theo private. Maya had always been kind to me, a maternal figure amidst the chaos of the hospital. But this thing with Theo and The Collectors wasn’t something I could bring anyone else into.

“I’m fine, really,” I assured her. “Just been working a lot and not getting enough rest.”

She didn’t look entirely convinced but nodded nonetheless. “Alright, but promise me you’ll take it easy and let me know if you need anything.”

“I will. Thanks again.” I gave her hand a grateful squeeze before heading toward the ambulance bay, where a commotion had begun.

Several nurses were lifting a dark-haired woman onto a stretcher and wheeling her into the trauma bay. I hurried over to help, my own discomfort temporarily forgotten. She was young, maybe in her early twenties, with long dark hair. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I had seen her before. Her face was ghostly pale, her breathing shallow and rapid. Blood covered her stomach from what looked to be a gunshot wound. We transferred her to the hospital bed and cut away her bloodstained shirt to assess the damage. The bullet had torn through her abdomen, and she was losing blood fast.

“What do we have?” Dr. Patel asked as he hurried in.

“One of the EMTs found her collapsed outside the ambulance bay. “She’s got a gunshot wound to the abdomen, with what appears to be a potential exit wound through her lower back,” the charge nurse replied. “I think it hit her spleen. We need to do a FAST exam to see if there is uncontrolled hemorrhaging in her abdomen.”

I helped cut away her bloody clothing and revealed the angry gunshot wound. Dr. Patel examined it quickly, his brow furrowed. “Get two units of O negative, and page the OR. She’s going to need surgery, stat.”

I started an IV and worked to pack her wound. As we rushed her toward the OR, her heart rate plummeted.

The trauma team swarmed around her, calling out vitals and hanging units of blood. “She’s crashing!” someone shouted.

The monitor showed asystole. She was flat-lining. I jumped on the gurney, starting chest compressions as the team wheeled her into the elevator. Time slowed as I pumped her chest, desperately trying to revive her failing heart. With each compression, I silently pleaded for her to fight. The elevator doors opened, and we rushed down the hallway to the OR.

“How long has she been down?” the surgeon asked.

“About two minutes,” I replied, not breaking the rhythm of my compressions.

As the anesthesiologist prepared to intubate her, the surgeon and his team scrubbed in. I continued to perform chest compressions until they were ready to take over. Suddenly, a low beep echoed through the room. I glanced at the monitor and saw a faint but present pulse on its display.

“Good work, Wrenly,” Dr. Patel said as he helped me off the bed.

I stepped back, my arms aching and my heart pounding. As the door swung shut behind me, I caught a final glimpse of the woman’s pale face, her dark hair fanned out around her. I went to the OR locker room, showered, and scrubbed her blood from my skin. I put on a pair of fresh scrubs and headed to the nurse’s station to see if there were any updates.

Everly, the charge nurse for the OR, waved me over. “Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I shook my head, trying to clear the fog of exhaustion and adrenaline. “I feel like I know her from somewhere.”

She frowned. “The gunshot victim? Do you think she’s been a patient of yours?”

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