Page 48 of Shadowed Vows: Ghost
My stomach drops. I may not know these men well, but I've seen how close they are. The worry etched on Blade's face speaks volumes.
Ghost's jaw clenches. "Where?"
"Medical room, second floor. Saint is working on him now."
We hurry upstairs, and I'm hit by the sharp smell of antiseptic. In a room that looks more like a small clinic than a bedroom, I see Frost lying on a gurney. His shirt is off, revealing a nasty gash across his ribs. Saint hovers over him, his movements quick and precise.
"Status?" Ghost barks.
Saint doesn't look up from his work. "Laceration to the left side, about eight inches long. Missed anything vital, but he's lost a fair amount of blood. I'm irrigating the wound now."
I stare at Saint, my eyes glued to his movements while worry gnaws at my insides. His skillful hands move methodically, cleaning the wound with a sterile saline solution. He reaches for what looks like a high-tech stapler.
"What's that?"
"Surgical stapler," he replies, his focus unwavering. "Faster than traditional sutures for a wound this size."
The device makes a series of clicking sounds as Saint closes the gash. It's both unsettling and impressive to watch.
Nitro bursts into the room, his usual energy subdued. "What can I do?"
"Set up the IV," Saint instructs. "We need to start fluids and antibiotics."
Nitro nods, moving to a nearby cabinet. His hands shake slightly as he prepares the IV bag, a drastic shift from his usual confidence.
Ghost stands at the foot of the gurney, his face unreadable. But his hands are clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles white with tension.
"He'll be okay," I say softly, surprising myself by reaching out to touch Ghost's arm. He doesn't pull away.
"Alina." Ghost's voice is low, his eyes not leaving Frost. "Let Saint check you over when he's done."
I start to protest, but he must sense it and the look he turns to give me silences any argument. I nod, suddenly aware of the aches and bruises from our earlier escape.
The door opens again, and the man who looks like a rugby player, who drove us from Chinatown, strides in. His eyes narrow as he takes in the scene.
"Report," he growls.
Ghost fills him in quickly, his voice clipped and professional. But the way the big man's shoulders tense, how his hand unconsciously moves to the knife at his belt.
These men may be dangerous, but they clearly care about each other. It's a dichotomy I'm not familiar with—lethal skills and unwavering loyalty.
Saint finishes with the staples and begins wrapping Frost's torso in clean bandages. "He'll need rest and monitoring, but he'll be fine."
There's a collective sigh of relief in the room. Ghost nods, some of the tension leaving his massive frame.
"Reaper is on his way back with the bike. Blade, I want a full perimeter check. Chaos, help him secure the area. Nitro, stay with Frost in case he needs anything."
"Good work," he tells Saint. "Now, check over our guest."
Saint turns to me, his professional demeanor softening slightly. "Any injuries I should know about?"
I shake my head. "Just some bruises, I think."
He gestures to a chair. "Have a seat. Let's make sure."
As Saint begins his examination, I marvel at the efficiency of this team. They may be intimidating, even terrifying at times, but watching them work together to save their friend... it's oddly reassuring.
I wince as Saint probes a particularly tender spot on my ribs.
