Page 152 of Bratva's Vow
Wren looked smaller in the hospital bed than in our much bigger one. Pale against the white sheets, his skin had taken on a sallow undertone, making the bruised shadows under his eyes stand out.
An oxygen cannula rested beneath his nose. IV lines snaked from both arms. Monitors tracked everything: oxygen saturation, heart rate, and blood pressure. Every number was another notch of worry in my chest.
I couldn’t stop watching him. I’d not left his side but for the moment they’d wheeled him away to run tests. Since they returned him to the ICU, I hadn’t budged. I was the only one allowed to see him. Jess and the others were in the waiting room. Knowing they were down the hall offered a sliver of comfort. Though not the kind I wanted. For Wren to open his eyes and smile, and say something ridiculous.
But he didn’t.
“Come on, baby.” I kissed the back of his hand just above where the IV was inserted. His touch was cold, his skin void of its usual warmth. “You’ve got to be okay. I’ve only just found you.”
The door opened with a quiet hiss, and I straightened in the chair beside Wren’s hospital bed.
Fuck.
Bradley’s husband.
We’d met before during office parties but never really had a conversation. He hung back for a few seconds, then moved his lips silently as if talking to himself. His chest expanded on a long exhale as he walked into the room, his white coat fluttering softly against his legs.
Leo Cavanagh looked exactly like I remembered. He was a handsome man in a clean-cut sort of way—midforties, immaculately groomed, and graying at the temples.
We exchanged a brief nod. Professional. Strained.
“Mr. Morozov.” His eyes flicked briefly to the boy unconscious beside me. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I wanted to review everything myself before coming in.”
I stood, though I didn’t offer my hand. “How is he?”
“Stable. We’ve completed a full panel of tests. A few results are still pending, but his vitals have improved slightly since you brought him in.”
Good news, then. As long as he kept improving.
He crossed to the foot of the bed and pulled up Wren’s chart from his tablet. “I need to ask a few questions. I’m assuming you’re his partner, and you will be able to respond?”
“Yes. I’ll try my best.”
“When did the symptoms start?”
“A little over a week ago.”
“What about his appetite? Any changes?”
I nodded. “He said everything tasted funny a few days ago—like metal, so he hasn’t been eating much lately.”
That made him pause. Finally, he looked up.
“Metallic taste. Progressive GI symptoms. Neuropathy. Hair thinning?”
I blinked. “What?”
He stepped around the bed, gently lifting Wren’s wrist to check his pulse manually. “Has he complained about tingling in his fingers? Burning feet? Has he been pulling hair from his brush or off his pillow?”
My heart rate kicked up. “His feet, yes, but I don’t know about his hair.”
He let go of Wren’s wrist, his expression sharpening.
“His labs are inconclusive so far, but his symptoms and the timeline suggest something more serious than a viral infection or food-borne illness. I’d like to run a heavy metals panel immediately. Especially for thallium.”
My breath caught. “Thallium?”
“It’s rare, but I’ve seen it before. Colorless, tasteless. It’s used industrially, but also—” His voice dipped. “In poisoning cases. Especially if administered slowly.”
