Page 38 of Eden and her Mercenary
A nurse appeared, her scrubs pristine compared to the surgeon's. "Mr. O'Toole? Your wife is being moved to the ICU now. You can see her for five minutes."
I followed her through labyrinthine hallways, trying to memorize the route, noting security cameras and exit points out of habit. The ICU was a hushed space of beeping monitors and subdued lighting, each glass-walled room containing its own private battle between life and death.
Eden lay in the third room, so still and pale she barely seemed present. Tubes and wires connected her to machines that breathed for her, monitored her, and medicated her. A ventilator pushed air into her lungs with mechanical precision, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room.
I approached slowly, almost afraid to touch her. She looked smaller somehow, diminished by the medical apparatus surrounding her. A bandage covered most of her right shoulder and chest, spots of blood already seeping through the white gauze.
"Hey," I whispered, carefully taking her hand. It was cold, unresponsive. "I'm here. You're safe now."
The only response was the steady beep of the heart monitor, each pulse a small victory against the alternative.
"The surgeon says you're going to pull through. Just need to rest, let your body heal." I stroked her hand, willing warmth back into it. "Stella's safe too. Waitingfor you to come home."
Home. The word caught in my throat. Our home, which should have been a sanctuary, had become the site of violence—again. The familiar weight of guilt settled. I choked back the lump in my throat as new tears streamed down my face. I didn't care who witnessed it. I laid my head on the bed and cried for the first time since I was a kid, vowing to hunt down the person who did this to her.
Chapter 13
Royal
Two weeks later, I sat in a chair beside Eden's bed, my body stiff from barely moving. The ventilator's rhythmic hiss had become the soundtrack to my vigil—a constant reminder that machines were doing what her body couldn't yet manage on its own. Her condition remained critical but stable, the doctors' cautious phrasing offering neither comfort nor despair.
I'd only left her side for brief stretches when Ryker or Wren forced me to shower or eat. The hospital staff had stopped trying to kick me out when visiting hours were over after Declan had a private conversation with the administrator.
The door opened, and I tensed automatically before recognizing Declan's silhouette. His expression was grimmer than usual, jaw tight with barely contained anger.
"We found them," he said without preamble, closing the door behind him.
I straightened, suddenly alert. "Junction?"
"Higher." He handed me a tablet. "The hit came directly from Prophecies Biomedical. Specifically, from the director of their military applications division—James Whitmore."
The tablet displayed a photograph of a distinguished-looking man in his sixties—silver hair, patrician features, the confident smile of someone accustomed to power. I committed his face to memory, feeling something cold and deadly settle in my chest.
"Why Eden?" I asked, my voice rough from disuse.
"It wasn't random." Declan pulled up another file—security footage from Prophecies the night we'd stolen the neural mapper. "Harrison's security clearance triggered a silent alert when she accessed certain files before helping you. Those files contained evidence of illegal human testing."
"Human testing?" I echoed, the implications hitting me like a physical blow. "The neural implants weren't just for dogs."
"No. According to our source, they've been experimenting on political prisoners from countries with questionable human rights records. Plausible deniability if anything goes wrong."
I looked at Eden's pale, still face, understanding dawning. "They think she has the files."
"Or knows what's in them. Harrison is dead,found a week ago floating in Lake Ontario" Declan's voice hardened. "Whitmore can't risk exposure. The contracts alone are worth billions, not to mention the criminal charges if this gets out."
"So he sends a sniper to silence a dog transporter." Rage built inside me, familiar and clarifying. "Where is he now?"
"That's why I came in person." Declan met my gaze directly. "He's in Pearl Lake. Arrived this morning with a security detail, ostensibly for a fishing weekend at his lakeside property."
"Convenient," I said, the word like ash in my mouth.
"Very." Declan checked his watch. "My people are tracking his movements, establishing patterns. When you're ready—"
"I'm ready now," I interrupted, standing so abruptly my chair scraped against the floor. Eden didn't stir at the sound, her artificially induced sleep unbroken.
"Ryker's already preparing," Declan continued as if I hadn't spoken. "But there's something else you should know." He hesitated. "Dr. Reeves is Whitmore's son-in-law."
The surgeon. The coincidence that wasn't.
