Chapter 3 - The Price of Survival"Put that away," Delia said, her hand reaching out to push the checkbook down. Her fingers brushed against his knuckles, and she felt the solid, warm pulse beneath his skin. "I'm not a mercenary, Mr. Frost."
"Lincoln," he corrected softly, not moving the checkbook. "If we're going to pretend you're a guest in this house, you can stop calling me Mr. Frost like I'm a bank teller."
"Lincoln," she repeated, tasting the syllables on her tongue. It felt entirely too intimate for a relationship born in an alleyway of blood and rain. "Put the check away. I don't want your money. I want guarantees."
Lincoln’s eyebrow arched. "What kind of guarantees?"
"First, my niece Naomi is brought here, into this fortress, where I can see her with my own eyes. Second, my medical license is reinstated, and the malpractice charge filed by Mercy General is permanently wiped from the state board's database. Third..." She paused, taking a steadying breath. "You tell me everything about what Victor Vance is planning so I'm not walking around blind in your war."
For a long moment, the library was so quiet they could hear the distant hum of traffic far below. Lincoln stared at her, a slow, predatory appreciation dawning in his dark eyes. Most people cowered when he offered them wealth. This exhausted, desperate woman was negotiating terms.
"Done," Lincoln said without a second's hesitation.
"You haven't even checked if the board can be bought," Delia said skeptically.
"In Hadley, everything and everyone has a price, Delia. Mercy General’s board members are currently up to their necks in a municipal embezzlement scheme I documented six months ago. Reinstating your license will be the easiest phone call I make today." Lincoln closed the checkbook and slipped it back into his jacket. "As for Naomi, Bruno is already bringing her and your friend here. They'll have the penthouse suite across the hall."
Before Delia could process the speed of his actions, the heavy oak doors burst open.
Garrett Mallory strode into the room, his polished smile stretched a bit too tight, holding a tablet computer in his hand. He stopped dead when he saw how close Lincoln and Delia were standing, a flicker of something dark and calculating crossing his handsome face.
"Mr. Frost," Garrett said, clearing his throat. "We have a problem at the downtown docks. Warehouse Four. A shipment of imported medical supplies was tampered with overnight. The security guards are claiming they were drugged."
Lincoln pulled back from Delia, the warmth vanishing from his expression instantly, replaced by a glacial, lethal stillness.
"Drugged with what?" Lincoln asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous register.
"Sodium pentothal derivative," Garrett said, glancing sideways at Delia with a strange, appraising look. "Knocked them out cold for six hours. Nothing was stolen. But the entire inventory of surgical antiseptics and antibiotics was contaminated with industrial bleach."
Delia felt the blood drain from her face. Medical supplies? Industrial bleach? That wasn't a standard mob turf war tactic. That was personal. That was designed to cause maximum panic and disrupt emergency care across the district.
"Who had access to the manifest codes?" Lincoln asked, stepping past Garrett toward his mahogany desk.
"Only senior management," Garrett replied smoothly, though Delia noticed a tiny bead of sweat form near his hairline. "Myself, Bruno, and... well, the logistics director."
Lincoln didn't answer immediately. He picked up his phone, dialed a single digit, and spoke into the speaker. "Bruno. Bring the car around. We're going to Warehouse Four. And double security on the penthouse—Naomi and her caretaker are arriving in ten minutes."
He hung up and looked at Delia. "You're staying here."
"Like hell I am," Delia snapped, grabbing her mother's medical bag from the chair. "Someone is contaminating medical supplies with industrial bleach in a district I used to nurse in. That affects real people. People who don't have bodyguards or penthouses."
"It's too dangerous," Lincoln snapped back, his authority flaring.
"You hired me to keep you alive, Lincoln. You didn't hire me to be a decorative houseplant," she said, marching right up to him until she was inches away. "I'm coming with you."
Garrett watched the exchange from the corner of the room, his fingers drumming a nervous, rapid rhythm against his tablet. "Sir, with all due respect, taking an untrained civilian into an active crime scene—"
"Quiet, Garrett," Lincoln said coldly, never breaking eye contact with Delia. A muscle ticked in his jaw. Then, slowly, a corner of his mouth twitched upward. "God help me, you're stubborn."
May you like
"It's my best quality," Delia replied.
Ten minutes later, as Bruno's black sedan tore out of the underground garage into the grey morning light, Delia sat in the back seat between Lincoln Frost and an uneasy silence that felt like the precursor to an explosion.
