Chapter 2 - The Needle and the Threat
Dominic Rossi did not move a single muscle, but the air in the room instantly turned lethal.
His dark eyes, rimmed with the red haze of a dangerous fever, locked onto mine. For three excruciating seconds, the only sound was the heavy, labored rhythm of his breathing and the storm raging against the glass outside.
“You have five seconds to pick up your bag and walk out that door,” Dominic said. His voice was low, gravelly, vibrating with an authority that didn't diminish even with a bullet hole rotting in his shoulder. “Or I will make sure you never work as a nurse again.”
“You’re septic, Mr. Rossi,” I replied, keeping my voice flat, professional, and devoid of the terror screaming through my veins. “If I walk out that door, you won't live long enough to revoke my nursing license.”
I didn't wait for his permission. I unzipped my canvas duffel, pulled out my medical shears, three rolls of sterile gauze, a bottle of medical-grade disinfectant, and an IV bag of broad-spectrum antibiotics I had managed to secure from my old colleague at the hospital.
Dominic’s jaw clenched. “I told you—”
“You told six other nurses to leave, and now you’re sitting in a pool of your own infected blood,” I interrupted, stepping closer to the bed. The heat radiating off his body hit me like an open oven. “You can threaten me all you want after I clean this wound. But right now, you’re going to sit back and let me do my job.”
Dominic reached out with his good left hand, his fingers clamping around my wrist like a band of forged iron. His grip was cold despite his fever, tight enough to bruise, holding me mere inches from his dark, sweat-slicked face.
“You’re either very brave, Nora Hayes,” he whispered, his thumb pressing right over my thrumming pulse point, “or you’re breathtakingly stupid.”
“I’m broke, Mr. Rossi,” I said, looking him dead in the eye without flinching. “And broke women don't have the luxury of being intimidated by men who can barely hold their heads up.”
For a fraction of a second, something flared in his dark eyes—not rage, but a flicker of grim, surprised amusement. His grip on my wrist slowly loosened, though he didn't let go entirely until I pulled back to sanitize my hands.
“Touch the wound,” he growled, leaning his head back against the dark pillows, “and I’ll throw you through that window.”
“Duly noted,” I said.
I cut away the filthy, blood-soaked bandages wrapping his shoulder and torso. The moment the fabric lifted, the metallic stench of oxidized blood mixed with the sweet, sickening odor of localized infection filled the room. The entry wound near his right collarbone was swollen, black-edged, and weeping pus.
Dominic didn't make a sound, but his chest heaved, muscles corded in his neck as he fought the sheer agony of the exposure.
“This is going to hurt,” I said, filling a syringe with a localized numbing agent. “I need to debride the dead tissue.”
“Just do it,” he spat through gritted teeth. “And skip the anesthetic. I don't like feeling numb.”
“I’m not asking for your preference,” I replied smoothly, driving the needle into the inflamed tissue around the wound before he could protest.
Dominic let out a low, guttural curse, his left hand gripping the mahogany bedpost so hard the wood groaned beneath his fingers. Veins stood out on his neck like whipcord. But to my surprise, he didn't strike out. He didn't throw a lamp. He simply stared at the ceiling, his jaw clamped shut so tightly I heard his teeth grind.
For forty-five agonizing minutes, I worked. I removed the necrotized skin, flushed the tracking infection with saline, and inserted a plastic drain tube to keep the wound open and flowing. I hung the IV bag on the tall wrought-iron bedpost, inserted a cannula into the thick vein on the back of his left hand, and taped it down securely.
Throughout it all, Dominic Rossi remained rigid as granite. Sweating, bleeding, and burning with a 103-degree fever, he never screamed. He only watched me through half-lidded, intense dark eyes, tracking every movement of my hands.
When I finally wrapped his shoulder in crisp, white sterile gauze and secured it with medical tape, I stepped back, letting out a breath I felt like I’d been holding for an hour. My uniform top was splattered with his blood; my forehead was damp with sweat.
Dominic lay back, his breathing gradually slowing as the antibiotics and fluids began their slow work through his system.
“You’re done,” he rasped, his voice barely a whisper now, exhausted by the trauma.
“For now,” I said, wiping down my scissors with alcohol wipes. “I’ll be sitting in that armchair. I need to monitor your fever every thirty minutes.”
Dominic looked at the plush armchair in the corner of the dark room, then back at me. His heavy eyelids fluttered, heavy with fever and sheer exhaustion.
May you like
“You’re insane, Nora,” he murmured, his voice finally slipping into the fog of sleep.
“No, Mr. Rossi,” I whispered, watching his dark eyelashes finally settle against his pale cheeks as his breathing evened out into deep sleep. “I’m just expensive.”
