Nyra's POV
They called me at 2:17 a.m.
Not with a page. Not over the intercom. No code blue siren.
A nurse I barely recognized brushed past me in the corridor, her eyes avoiding mine. “They want you in Room 407,” she said, barely above a whisper.
“What floor?” I asked, but she didn’t answer.
Something about her tone made my stomach knot. It wasn’t urgency. It was colder, sharper. Like a warning disguised as a request.
I followed her direction, navigating past Recovery, through a service corridor I’d never used in my six months at St. Jude’s. The silence grew heavier with each step. The usual buzz of nurses, the hum of machines, the shuffle of slippers—gone.
And then I saw them.
Suits.
At least six of them, lined along the corridor outside Room 407. Broad-shouldered, earpieces glinting, eyes fixed ahead. They weren’t hospital staff. They looked like they belonged in a military base or behind some prime minister’s convoy.
One of them stepped forward. “Dr. Nyra Kapoor?”
I nodded cautiously.
He pushed the door open.
The air inside was freezing. The AC was cranked beyond comfort, the scent of antiseptic biting at my nose.
And there he was.
Lying unconscious beneath a pale blue sheet was a man. Mid-thirties, maybe. Dark hair tangled and damp with sweat, thick lashes casting shadows on cheekbones that could cut glass. His skin was too pale, lips cracked. There were stitches across his abdomen, dark bruises blooming along his ribs. An IV dripped steadily, but something about him made time slow.
My breath caught.
It wasn’t the injuries. I’d seen worse. It was... him.
Even battered and barely alive, he was devastatingly handsome. Not in the polished, magazine-cover kind of way. But in the raw, dangerous way of something barely contained. A sculpted jaw with a hint of defiance. Broad shoulders under the sheet, hinting at a strength even unconsciousness couldn’t suppress.
There was something magnetic about him. Like standing too close to a fire and knowing you’ll get burned—but not stepping back.
I stepped forward, checked his vitals. Fever. Weak pulse. Shallow breathing. Septic. Whoever stitched him had done the bare minimum.
“If he doesn’t go into surgery immediately, he dies,” I told the suited man beside me.
He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.
Fine. I didn’t need permission.
We prepped the OR. I scrubbed in myself. The resident assigned to me kept glancing nervously at the doorway, where another suit stood like a statue.
I opened him up.
It was worse than I expected. The sutures had barely held. There was internal bleeding, signs of a ruptured organ, and infection had already begun to fester.
And then he flatlined.
The monitor screeched, long and unbroken. My hands froze.
“Charge to two hundred,” I said hoarsely.
We shocked him. Once. Twice.
“Come on,” I whispered, leaning over him. “I didn’t come this far for you to die on me.”
The third shock hit. His body jerked. The screen blipped. Then again.
A pulse.
He was back.
We closed him up. Every stitch I placed felt personal. Like I was binding a secret into his skin.
I stayed long after the surgery ended. Just watching him. His lashes fluttered once, but he didn’t wake.
The men outside still didn’t speak.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about him. About the way he looked like he belonged to another world—one darker, sharper. The kind of world that left bruises like his.
But even in this broken state, he was... breathtaking.
Something about him felt like a beginning I wasn’t ready for.
Later That Night
Rain tapped against the windows of my Santa Croce apartment as I peeled off my scrubs and dropped them into the hamper. I showered quickly, hoping the water would wash away the tension clinging to my skin.
It didn’t.
I brewed chamomile tea and curled up on the couch, watching the city lights flicker through foggy glass.
I should’ve felt relief. He was alive. I’d done my job. But I couldn’t shake the image of him lying there, his face serene and lethal all at once.
Then I heard it.
A creak.
Barely audible, but it didn’t belong.
My heart pounded as I turned toward the hallway.
A shadow moved. Slow. Deliberate.
Then a voice, low and sharp:
“Let him die. Or you’re next.”
I froze. The figure stepped back into the shadows.
The front door clicked.
Gone.
I stood there, clutching my mug, pulse racing.
Whatever world that man came from, it had followed him.
And now... it had found me.
Adrian's POV
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The sound dragged me from the abyss.
My eyes cracked open to a ceiling I didn’t recognize. The sterile scent of antiseptic and metal filled my lungs.
Pain came next. A slow burn from my ribs down to my abdomen.
I turned my head. And saw her.
Dark curls. Slender fingers holding a chart. Eyes like storm clouds—intelligent, calm, and utterly unfazed by chaos.
She was beautiful.
Not the kind I was used to. No makeup. No rehearsed charm. Just a quiet power that seemed to settle in her bones.
She was staring at me.
Not in fear. Not in awe.
Curiosity. Maybe even suspicion.
“You’re awake,” she said, her voice steady.
She stepped forward and held out a cup of water. I took it, fingers grazing hers. Warm. Sure.
“Do you know your name?”
I did.
Adrian Moretti.
But I said nothing.
Because saying that name here would be a death sentence—for me, for her.
“We don’t have your ID. No record of your admission. You were dumped at the back of the ER with a bullet wound and half-sealed stitches. Lucky to be alive,” she added, eyes narrowing.
“I’ve been called worse,” I muttered.
It was the first time I’d heard my voice in days. Rough. Dry. But it made her pause.
She looked like she wanted to ask more. But didn’t.
Smart.
“You flatlined,” she said quietly. “I brought you back.”
Our eyes met.
She wasn’t bragging. She was stating fact. But there was something in her gaze. Something haunted.
She’d seen people die. Maybe even held their hands while they slipped away.
But she hadn’t let me go.
She saved me.
And that meant one thing:
She was now part of my world.
God help her.
Because no one walks away from the Morettis untouched.
Especially not the ones who make the mistake of caring.
And I had a feeling she just might.
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