Vital Signs (The Saints of Salem #1)

Prologue

Desmond

Anya Volkov.

The name had been passed to me in pieces over the last few days — transfer, resident, day shift couldn’t keep her, needed “a change of pace.” The kind of phrasing administration used when things were a little more difficult than they wanted to let on to.

She wasn’t going to find anything slower on nights.

Nights weren’t quieter.

They were just darker.

And darker meant people waited longer before they came in. It meant worse injuries, worse decisions, worse outcomes. It meant chaos that didn’t announce itself until it was already standing in front of you, bleeding out on the tile.

Nights didn’t ease you in.

They exposed you.

From across the department, I spotted her trailing behind Levin like a shadow that hadn’t quite decided it belonged to him.

Curly red hair twisted into a loose knot that looked like it had been done hours ago and forgotten, shoulders pulled in tight as if she was trying to make herself smaller in a place that didn’t allow for it.

She looked… breakable. Frazzled.

Too quiet. Too unsure. The exact type of resident that got eaten alive before they ever found their footing.

I’d seen her before, in passing — hovering at the edges during shift changes, tucked into corners and triage with a chart held a little too close to her chest, like it might shield her from being noticed. I’d never seen her in a trauma bay. Never seen her hands bloodied. Never seen her tested.

That told me enough.

I turned down the hall toward Central 3, already writing her off in the way I’d learn to do in a place like this. Not everyone was built for nights.

“Will I present to you, or to Dr. Vaughn?” Her voice stopped me. Not fully — but enough that my pace slowed, my attention catching on something I hadn’t expected.

It didn’t match. I’d built something else for her in my head. Something softer. Thinner. A voice that would waver under pressure.

This wasn’t that. There was weight to it.

A low, steady cadence that settled somewhere in my chest before I could ignore it.

The sound tugged at something inside of me.

Something annoying and primitive and distracting.

I didn’t want to pay attention to her, Dr. Volkov just happened to be on my shift tonight.

“Either,” Levin answered easily. “Technically Vaughn runs nights, but I’m around, too.”

I glanced over without meaning to. Fuck, get it together Vaughn. But I didn’t pull my gaze away. She nodded, quick and tight, fingers twisting together at her waist — nervous energy she hadn’t figured out how to hide yet.

A quiet laugh slipped out of me, more reflex than intention as I turned away again. I shook my head, shaking the image of her fiery hair and uneasy spirit out of my head.

Yeah.

Nights were going to eat her alive.

I checked my patients. Reviewed charts. Kept the machine running the way it always ran — controlled chaos, predictable in its unpredictability. The kind of rhythm you either learned to live inside or got crushed by.

By the time the night split open, I’d almost forgotten about her.

Almost.

“I need hands in here!” Levin’s voice cut across the department, sharp enough to stop conversation mid-sentence, loud enough to pull every available body toward it without question.

Everything shifted.

I turned on instinct, already moving before the thought had fully formed, gloves snapping free from the box on the wall as I rounded the corner into the trauma bay. Surefootedness carried me to the sound of the worst day of someone’s life.

And then — I stopped. Not fully, but enough that it caused my steps to falter.

Red hair. Same as before, except… not. Her shoulders weren’t hunched anymore. They were set, squared in a way that hadn’t existed an hour ago.

Her hands were already bloodied, firm and unshaking as she held pressure on a mangled arm, fingers placed with precision that didn’t come from guessing. Her brow was furrowed — not in fear, not in hesitation, but in focus so sharp it cut through the noise around her.

“BP’s dropping,” she said, her voice steady, carrying clean over the chaos. “We’re losing more than we thought—”

There was no tremor. No second-guessing. And something in my chest shifted.

“What’s happening?” I barked, stepping fully into the room now, eyes flicking from the patient to her and back again.

She didn’t look at me.

Didn’t defer.

“Deep laceration to the brachial — possible arterial involvement,” she replied immediately. “We’ve got pressure, but it’s not holding. He needs OR.”

Her hands adjusted as she spoke, efficient, controlled, as if she’d done this before — as if she belonged here. Like she knew she belonged here.

And just like that — everything I’d decided about her unraveled. Because the girl I’d written off an hour ago wasn’t standing in front of me anymore.

The girl in front of me was steady. Unflinching in the face of exactly the kind of chaos that breaks people.

My gaze lingered a second too long, tracking the surety in her movements, the way the room bent around her without her ever raising her voice. And somewhere, quiet and immediate and absolute, a thought surfaced before I could stop it.

Well, I got that wrong.

I’d… have to avoid her for a little while longer, it looked like. Especially if the way my insides were twisting up just watching her had anything to say about it.

Jesus Christ.