Chapter 8 - Return to St. Victoria
The private wing of St. Victoria Medical Center was deathly quiet at 5:30 in the morning. The night shift was winding down, and the day-shift staff had not yet arrived.
Naomi swiped her ID badge at the security checkpoint. Cole Mercer was sitting at the nurse’s station drinking black coffee from a paper cup. He looked up, surprised, as Naomi walked briskly down the corridor toward Room 9.
“You’re early, Brooks,” Cole said, setting his cup down. “Shift doesn't start for three hours.”
“I left something in the room yesterday,” Naomi said, not breaking stride.
Cole didn't stop her. He had seen the look in her eyes—the same look Silas got when he was tracking a target.
She pushed the door to Room 9 open without knocking.
The suite was dim, illuminated only by the faint blue glow of the Manhattan skyline filtering through the reinforced glass. Silas was awake, sitting upright in the hospital bed, his laptop closed on the rolling table beside him. He looked exhausted, the strain of the infection and the fever drawing sharp, hard lines across his face.
He looked up as the door clicked shut. His gray eyes narrowed slightly in quiet confusion.
“You shouldn't be here,” Silas said, his voice raspy. “Julian shouldn't have given you that file.”
Naomi walked straight to the edge of the bed, her expression unyielding, her dark green scrubs immaculate under the dim light. She didn't offer sympathy. She didn't offer platitudes.
“You’re an idiot, Silas Grayson,” she said, using his first name for the very first time.
Silas froze, a flash of surprise cutting through the exhaustion in his eyes. “Excuse me?”
“You risked your life to pull three men out of a burning warehouse eleven years ago, and then you spent the next decade acting like a cold-blooded syndicate boss because you were terrified that letting anyone get close enough to see your scars would make you weak,” Naomi said, her voice burning with a fierce, controlled passion.
Silas’s jaw tightened. He leaned back against the pillows, his breathing shallow. “You don't know what you’re talking about.”
“I know the file said the burns covered forty percent of your body,” Naomi shot back, stepping right up to the edge of the bed. “I know you let the tissue heal into a twisted mess because you refused proper physical therapy in favor of building an empire out of spite. And I know you think hiding behind armed guards and billions of dollars keeps you safe.”
She reached down, picked up the fresh tube of antibiotic ointment and a sterile gauze pad from the tray, and tore the packaging open with a sharp rip.
“Take your shirt off,” she commanded.
May you like
Silas stared at her, the silence between them stretching like a taut wire. For a long, tense moment, neither of them moved. The billionaire who commanded empires and the nurse from Brooklyn locked gazes in a silent war of wills.
Then, slowly, Silas raised his hands and unbuttoned his shirt.
