Chapter 1 - THE TERROR IN ROOM 412
The grip around my wrist felt like a steel vise. Pain shot up my arm, sharp and immediate, as Nicholas’s fingers tightened until my pulse throbbed against his knuckles.
"Keep... reading," he rasped again, his voice like gravel scraping over rusted iron.
My heart slammed against my ribs so violently I thought it might burst through my scrub top. My throat locked. The red emergency lights cast long, twisted shadows across his pale, sharp face, making him look less like a patient and more like a ghost clawing its way back from hell.
"Nicholas... let go," I managed to whisper, my voice trembling so badly I barely recognized it. "You're hurt. You need to calm down."
His dark eyes, unblinking and heavy with weeks of forced slumber, locked onto mine. There was no confusion in them. No memory loss. Just an icy, dangerous clarity that made my blood run cold.
"Read, Clara," he growled softly, his thumb pressing directly over the pulse point in my wrist. "Unless you want those men outside to know I’m awake."
I froze. My gaze darted toward the heavy frosted glass door of Room 412. Through the glass, I could see the silhouette of Marco, the head of his security detail—a man whose suit concealed a suppressed firearm and whose eyes never showed a single trace of emotion.
"Why?" I stammered, tears of pure adrenaline burning behind my eyes. "They’re your men. They’ve been standing guard for six months."
A bitter, chilling smile tugged at the corner of Nicholas’s dry lips. "Those aren't my guards, little nurse. They’re my jailers. And if they know I can hear, speak, or move... neither of us leaves this room alive."
The realization hit me like a bucket of ice water.
Every quiet moment I had spent in this room, every secret I had shared while reading to a "coma patient," every soft whisper in the dark—he had heard it all. But worse than that, I was currently standing in a room with a mafia boss who was hiding his recovery from the very men protecting him.
"You've been conscious?" I breathed, terror gripping my lungs.
"For three weeks," Nicholas whispered, his grip loosening just enough to stop my arm from going completely numb, though he didn't let go entirely. "Every hour. Every test. Every time they injected me with muscle relaxants to keep me paralyzed. I felt it all."
A thunderclap shattered the silence outside, shaking the glass pane of the window. The monitors beside the bed gave a sharp spike, the heart rate jumping into dangerous territory.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Heavy. Deliberate.
"Clara?" Marco’s deep voice boomed through the wooden door as the handle rattled. "Everything okay in there? The power grid took a hit."
My body went rigid. Nicholas’s eyes narrowed, his fingers digging back into my skin with urgent force.
"Pick up the book," Nicholas commanded in an imperious whisper. "Read. Now."
With my free hand, I scrambled for my phone lying face down on the cold linoleum floor. My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped it again. I opened the app, my eyes scanning the text frantically as the door swung open.
Marco stood in the doorway, his broad frame blocking the dim light from the corridor. His hand rested casually inside his tailored jacket, right over his holster. His sharp eyes scanned the room, lingering on the red emergency lights, the flickering heart monitor, and finally on me.
"Is there a problem, Nurse Jenkins?" Marco asked, his tone deceptively smooth.
I swallowed hard, forcing my shoulders to drop, forcing my voice to stabilize as I gripped my phone.
"No, Marco," I said, putting on the tired, overworked nurse persona I had practiced for months. "The sudden power drop made the monitor jump for a second. I was just reading him a chapter to keep myself awake."
Marco walked deeper into the room. Each step he took sounded like a death march. He stopped at the foot of the bed, his dark eyes fixing onto Nicholas’s still face.
Nicholas’s eyes were closed again. His breathing was shallow, his jaw relaxed, his body completely limp. It was an extraordinary performance. If I hadn't felt the crushing grip of his hand two seconds ago, I would have sworn he was still deep in a coma.
Marco leaned over the bed, peering closely at Nicholas’s eyes. He reached out and tapped the side of Nicholas’s face with two fingers. Hard.
Nicholas didn't flinch. Not a twitch. Not a blink.
"Still a vegetable," Marco muttered under his breath, sounding almost disappointed—or relieved. He turned his gaze back to me, his eyes narrowing slightly as he noticed my hand under the blanket. "What are you doing over there?"
"I was... checking his peripheral pulse," I lied smoothly, pulling my hand out from under the sheet. Nicholas had released my wrist just in time. My skin was flushed bright red with deep finger marks, but I kept my palm turned downward against my scrubs. "His circulation is poor tonight because of the temperature drop."
Marco stared at me for three agonizing seconds. The silence in the room was so thick I could hear the rain lash against the window pane.
Finally, he exhaled a puff of air and stepped back.
"Keep reading your little fairy tales then," Marco said, his voice laced with faint contempt. "The generator will kick the main power back on in five minutes. Don't leave the room until the shift change."
"I won't," I whispered.
Marco turned and stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him. The lock clicked into place with a sharp, final snap.
The moment the latch caught, Nicholas’s eyes snapped open once again. He let out a low, ragged breath, his chest heaving under the thin hospital gown.
"Good girl," he murmured, his dark eyes burning into mine with an intensity that made my skin prickle. "You play a convincing liar, Clara."
"I am not a liar!" I snapped in a furious whisper, stepping away from the bed and clutching my throbbing wrist. "I’m a nurse! I signed up to care for sick people, not to get dragged into a mafia execution! I'm calling the head physician right now—"
Before I could reach for the wall intercom, Nicholas sat up.
It was a slow, agonizing movement. His muscles protested, his face contorting in pure agony as the severed nerves and healing flesh in his head and torso flared with pain. But he didn't make a sound. He swung his bare legs over the edge of the bed, the hospital gown draping over his scarred, muscular frame.
I backed up until my spine hit the cold plaster wall.
"You call anyone in this hospital," Nicholas said, his voice deadly calm despite the sweat dripping down his temple, "and Marco’s men will kill you before the elevator reaches this floor. Do you really think St. Jude’s private wing is a sanctuary? Who do you think pays the board of directors? Who do you think put me in this bed?"
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The room felt like it was spinning. "You mean..."
"Marco didn't fail to protect me the night I was shot," Nicholas said, his dark eyes locking onto mine like an iron chain. "He’s the one who set the trap. And he’s waiting for the order to finish the job."
