Chapter 2 - Blood and Ledger
The lab results came back within forty minutes. Pseudomonas aeruginosa—an opportunistic, aggressive bacterial strain that thrived in hospital environments and loved compromised tissue. Left untreated on a wound as deep and complex as the keloids scarring Silas’s back, it could easily turn systemic within twenty-four hours.
Dr. Keller hurried into the private wing shortly after six o'clock, his white coat flapping behind him like the wings of an anxious bird. He stopped short at the nurse’s station, staring at Cole and Wade, who still stood like stone statues outside Room 9.
“Has Mr. Grayson agreed to the intravenous broad-spectrum course?” Keller asked breathlessly.
“He hasn't agreed to anything except letting Brooks change the dressing,” Cole replied, his voice flat. “She’s still in there.”
Keller blanched. “Alone? With him? Do you know how many specialists have walked out of that room with bruised egos—or worse?”
Inside Room 9, Naomi wasn't bruised. She was annoyed.
“I need to debride the dead tissue around the lower edge of the scar,” Naomi said, holding a pair of sterile surgical scissors and forceps under the bright overhead examination lamp. “It’s going to hurt, Mr. Grayson. There are no nerve endings dead enough to spare you that.”
Silas sat forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together. The muscle in his jaw ticked. “Do it.”
She didn't hesitate. With clinical precision, she trimmed away the necrotic tissue. A bead of dark blood welled along the margin of the red, angry wound. Silas didn't flinch, but the knuckles of his hands turned bone-white as he gripped his own wrists, the sheer physical discipline required to suppress the pain radiating through his massive frame.
“You could use local anesthetic,” Naomi noted quietly, swabbing the fresh edge with saline.
“Anesthetic dulls reflexes,” Silas muttered, his voice tight. “A man in my position cannot afford to be dull.”
“A man in your position is currently running a 102-degree fever because he thinks invincibility is a medical substitute for antibiotics,” Naomi countered, applying a thick layer of silver sulfadiazine salve over the raw flesh. “Your empire won't do you much good if you die of septic shock over a localized tissue tear.”
Silas turned his head sharply, fixing her with a piercing stare. “You talk to me as if I were a misbehaving child, Nurse Brooks.”
“Children usually listen when they’re told they’re being foolish,” Naomi shot back without missing a beat, securing a fresh, sterile non-stick dressing over his back with medical tape. She smoothed down the edges with firm, steady palms. “There. Done. Shirt goes back on, and you start oral antibiotics every eight hours. No exceptions.”
She stripped off her gloves, dropped them into the disposal container, and picked up her tray. As she turned to leave, a heavy hand closed around her wrist.
It wasn't a violent grip. It wasn't the grip of a guard or an enemy. It was warm, solid, and utterly immovable.
Naomi looked down. Silas hadn't stood up. He was still sitting on the edge of the bed, his fingers curled around her wrist just tightly enough to stop her movement.
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“Name your price, Naomi,” Silas said quietly, his voice dropping an octave.
Naomi froze. The professional detachment she had worn like armor all afternoon fractured slightly. She looked down into those steel-gray eyes, feeling the dangerous, suffocating pull of a billionaire who believed every single thing on earth had a price tag attached to it.
