Chapter 2 - A Blade of Sun
Liam did not let go of her wrist immediately. His rough, labored breathing echoed in the quiet room, the green line on the heart monitor spiking into a rapid, jagged rhythm. He searched her face, looking for the usual tearful panic or trembling submission that every other medical professional had displayed since he was brought back to the estate. He found none. Grace’s blue-green eyes were calm, professional, and entirely unyielding.
Slowly, Liam’s fingers loosened. He dropped his hand back onto the dark sheets, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle twitched in his cheek.
"Do your job," Liam growled, turning his face toward the dark ceiling. "And make it fast."
Grace didn't waste a second. She reached for the trauma shears on her tray and carefully cut away the soiled outer layers of dressing across his chest and shoulder. Beside the bed, Dr. Evelyn Shaw stepped out of the shadows. Dressed in navy scrubs beneath a crisp white lab coat, the private physician held a tablet against her chest, her blonde hair pulled back tightly. Dr. Shaw’s eyes were wide with genuine astonishment as she watched Grace work without a single tremor in her fingers.
"His temperature peaked at one hundred and two an hour ago," Dr. Shaw murmured softly, keeping her distance from the bed. "He refused the intravenous antipyretic."
"He doesn't need a lecture, Doctor. He needs clean seals," Grace replied quietly, dabbing sterile solution over the non-graphic, bruised tissue around his surgical incision.
Liam gritted his teeth against the searing pain, his broad shoulders tensing as Grace expertly applied fresh, sterile cotton pads and wrapped the white gauze with firm, even pressure. He didn't make a sound, but sweat poured down his forehead, running in small rivulets across his collarbone.
As Grace smoothed down the final strip of medical tape across his shoulder, she noticed Liam's focus shift. His icy blue gaze was no longer on her, nor on the ceiling. He was staring past the foot of his bed, his entire body locking into an unnatural, rigid posture.
Grace followed his line of sight.
At the far end of the sickroom stood a set of massive floor-to-ceiling windows, completely obscured by heavy, floor-length velvet drapes. However, near the bottom left corner, a tiny gap in the fabric allowed a single, knife-thin blade of late afternoon sunlight to cut through the dark room, casting a warm golden streak across the dark Persian rug.
Liam wasn't looking away from the light. He was staring directly into it, his pupils dilated, his expression shifting from furious pride to something far more dangerous—a cold, buried terror.
Curious, Grace stepped around the IV pole and walked slowly toward the heavy window drapes. She reached out her gloved hand, her fingers hovering just an inch from the thick pull cord.
"Don't," Liam’s voice snapped through the room.
It wasn't his usual booming roar. It was low, raspy, and laced with an absolute, lethal warning that made Leo Moretti instantly step forward from the doorway, his hand resting on his concealed holster.
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Grace paused, her hand holding the cord in mid-air. She turned her head, looking over her shoulder at the powerful mafia boss trapped in his bed, his chest heaving as he tried to push himself up on one elbow despite the agony in his leg.
Grace narrowed her eyes, her nurse’s intuition kicking in. "Then tell me what's behind them."
