Page 3 of Blood Heir

Another shift behind the door.

Two more armed men enter. One sweeps the room with a trained eye. The other stays at the threshold. But it’s the man between them that draws my eyes.

No gun. No fear.

A doctor. Late fifties, lean build, silver-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose. His coat flares slightly as he steps forward. He raises both hands to show he isn’t a threat.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he says softly. “You’re safe.”

Safe.

I don’t believe it. But I don’t have the strength to crawl any farther.

He approaches slowly, then kneels beside me. Not close enough to touch—yet. He pulls a small penlight from his pocket.

“Your heart rate’s spiking,” he says. “Let me check you, alright?”

I nod—barely.

His hand brushes mine. He presses two fingers to the inside of my wrist, eyes on the second hand of his watch. Then his hand moves to my neck, just under the jaw. His expression tightens, but he hides it well.

He adjusts the light and flashes it briefly across my eyes.

“Mrs. Accardi,” he says carefully, “can you hear me?”

The name hits like a slap. I recoil, eyes darting from the doctor to the guards to the man with the radio.

They’re all watching me. Waiting for me to answer.

“Is….” My voice cracks. “Is that my name?”

The doctor’s sigh is small. Heavy.

“Do you remember anything?” he asks. “Anything at all about yourself?”

I search. I dig. I try to grasp something—a name, a memory, a sound, a face.

There’s nothing.

Only fear.

And pain.

And blood.

I shake my head.

The doctor nods once, slowly. “Alright,” he murmurs. “We’ll take it one step at a time.”

My fingers twitch when the tape is peeled away.

The doctor works on carefully bandaging the back of my hand where the IV left torn flesh. He’s professional, but hiseyes are cautious—like I might bolt again. Like he’s stitching up something more dangerous than a confused woman in a hospital gown.

I sit across from him now, clothed in pale grey sweats someone must’ve picked for me. My hair hangs damp around my shoulders, and my skin—it looks wrong. Washed out. Like I’ve been asleep for a century.

He asks me to do a few things.

Follow his pen with my eyes. Squeeze his fingers. Lift one leg, then the other.

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