Chapter 8
The ambulance screeched to a halt. Perry jumped out and offered a hand, but Damon waved him off. He stepped down, cradling his left arm against his chest.
He looked like he had walked out of hell. His face was smeared with soot, his hair matted with sweat and ash. His turnout coat hung open, revealing a grey t-shirt soaked through. But beneath the grime, his eyes were piercingly blue.
The triage nurse, a young woman named Sarah, blushed furiously. "Um, sir? Name?"
Damon didn't answer. He was scanning the room.
Perry stepped up. "Captain Hansen. Possible radial fracture. We need an ortho consult."
Adria was at the computer station, her back to the door. She heard the commotion but didn't turn around.
"Dr. Barr!" The charge nurse yelled. "Trauma One. Firefighter. Arm injury."
Adria sighed. "Coming."
She grabbed a pair of gloves and walked toward Trauma One. She snapped the gloves on, her mind already running through the checklist. Check pulse, check sensation, check motor function.
She ripped the curtain back.
"Okay, let's see what we have-"
The words died in her throat.
Damon was sitting on the edge of the gurney. He looked up as the curtain moved.
Time stopped. The sounds of the ER-the beeping monitors, the shouting, the rolling wheels-faded into a dull roar.
Adria stood frozen, her hands half-raised. She stared at the soot-stained face she saw every night in her dreams.
"Damon?" she breathed, the name slipping out before she could stop it.
Damon leaned back against the pillow. He looked exhausted, in pain, and utterly triumphant. A slow, crooked smile spread across his face.
"Hello, Dr. Barr."
"You... how?" Adria's brain was misfiring. "What are you doing here?"
Perry looked between them. "Doc? You know the Captain?"
Adria snapped out of it. Her survival instinct kicked in. She straightened her spine, her face closing off like a vault door.
"No," she said coldly. "I don't."
Damon's smile faltered. His eyes darkened.
Adria turned to the nurse. "It's a conflict of interest. Page Dr. Young. He's the ortho on call. I have... other patients."
She turned to leave. She couldn't touch him. She couldn't be this close to him.
She took one step toward the curtain.
Damon's good hand shot out. He grabbed her wrist.
His grip was hot, calloused, and firm. Adria gasped. A shock of electricity shot up her arm, settling deep in her chest. It was a familiar touch, one that used to mean safety. Now it felt like danger.
"Let go," she hissed, trying to yank her arm back.
Damon didn't let go. He didn't squeeze hard enough to hurt, but he anchored her there.
"I'm your patient," he said, his voice rough.
"There are other doctors," Adria argued, her voice rising slightly. "Better doctors."
Damon pulled her a fraction of an inch closer. His eyes locked onto hers, intense and pleading. "I don't trust them. I only trust you."
The station crew and the nurses were watching. The air was thick with unsaid things. Adria felt the weight of their stare. If she made a scene, if she ran, it would only raise more questions.
She looked at his arm. It was swollen, angry. He was in pain, even if he was hiding it.
She deflated. "Fine."
She twisted her wrist, and he let go instantly.
"Lie down," she ordered, her voice regaining its clinical edge.
Damon obeyed, lying back on the sterile paper. He never took his eyes off her face.
Adria reached for the trauma shears. "I need to cut the shirt."
Damon smirked. "Buy me dinner first?"
Adria glared at him. She slid the cold metal blade of the scissors under the sleeve of his t-shirt, the steel touching his hot skin. She cut upward, the fabric parting with a ripping sound.
She peeled the shirt away, exposing his shoulder and chest. Muscles rippled under the skin as he shifted. He was covered in old scars-scars she didn't recognize.
She swallowed hard, focusing on the broken bone, trying to ignore the man attached to it.
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