Chapter 2
DAMIEN
The moment I step into the festively decorated office space, my training kicks in—Navy field assessment protocols flowing through my mind automatically. Eight years as a Corpsman taught me to compartmentalize, evaluate, prioritize, and execute.
As I push through a crowded room of Christmas party goers and panicked bystanders, my eyes are instantly drawn to a woman in acute respiratory distress on the floor.
Standard Friday night.
At least, it seems like it, until our eyes meet.
She lifts her face to mine, and there’s an immediate clawing at my chest. Even gasping for air, she’s stunning—deep chocolate brown eyes wide with fear, skin the color of dark caramel, high cheekbones.
Her dark hair frames her face in ringlets, and despite the distress contorting her features, there’s something so delicate about her.
Focus, Hale. She’s a patient, not a date.
“I’m Damien. Can you tell me your name?”
“M—Morgan,” she wheezes, the effort making her wince.
I notice the discarded inhaler. “Morgan, did your inhaler help at all?”
She shakes her head, clutching at her chest.
I check her pulse—racing—while noting the nail marks on her chest where she’s clawed at her skin. Classic panic-induced asthma attack, but the inhaler should have provided some relief. This is severe.
“Has this happened before?” I place the oxygen mask over her face, motioning for Jenkins to prep the gurney.
Her eyes flicker with realization, and then she nods slightly.
I perform a rapid trauma assessment while monitoring her SpO2 levels on the portable pulse oximeter.
Her breathing sounds are severely diminished on auscultation—this isn’t merely anxiety; it’s a full bronchospasm.
My fingers move of their own accord, the same hands that once stabilized wounded soldiers, now working to keep this woman alive.
“Albuterol’s not touching it,” I tell Jenkins. “We need to get her on a nebulizer treatment. Likely need Benralizumab.”
Morgan’s fingers find my wrist, gripping with surprising strength. There’s intelligence behind the fear in those eyes—she understands the severity.
“We’re taking you to the ambulance now,” I explain, sliding one arm beneath her knees and the other around her shoulders. Her body feels fragile against mine, but I can feel the tension in her muscles. “The treatment there will help you breathe. Understand?”
She manages a small nod, her eyelashes fluttering as she struggles to maintain consciousness.
I place her onto the gurney and then take my end. “On three,” I tell Jenkins. She weighs almost nothing between us, but the responsibility of this moment feels immense.
Once we get her down to the ground floor in the elevator, it’s smooth sailing to the ambulance.
We load Morgan into the back as we do countless times every shift.
Jenkins closes the doors while I position myself beside her, monitoring her vitals.
Her oxygen saturation is dangerously low, and her lips are taking on a bluish tinge.
“Prepping Benralizumab,” I announce, reaching for the medication. My movements are automatic after years of training—draw the correct dosage, tap the syringe, expel air bubbles.
Morgan’s eyes follow my every move, panic evident, but there’s trust there too. It’s a look I’ve seen numerous times, that moment when patients surrender themselves completely to my care. Usually, it’s simply part of the job. But with her, it hits differently.
I swab her upper arm with alcohol. “This will help calm your immune response. Might feel a sting. But I need you to relax. Can you do that for me?”
My eyes lock onto hers like a homing missile. She nods almost imperceptibly.
“Good girl. Now breathe.” The words slip out before I can catch them—more intimate than my usual clinical tone.
The effect is immediate. Her pupils dilate. Her breathing slows down. Her heart rate drops from critical to manageable as her oxygen levels climb.
I laugh softly, partly from relief at her improvement, partly from disbelief at her response.
And fuck if my body doesn’t respond too.
Pressure surges below my belt, blood rushing south with such intensity that it’s almost painful.
In my years as a paramedic, I’ve never had such an inappropriate physical reaction to a patient.
“Good to know, princess,” I murmur. It’s at that point that I depress the plunger, wondering if it’s even necessary, as my words seem to have worked a miracle on her.
Her eyes widen slightly. A flush spreads across her cheeks. She looks confused, embarrassed... maybe intrigued?
I busy myself with setting up her IV, trying to regain my professional demeanor. This woman—this patient—has somehow slipped past defenses I didn’t even know existed. In the span of ten minutes, Morgan has become more than just another life to save. Dangerous territory for someone like me.
The ambulance lurches forward as Jenkins navigates through traffic. The siren wails overhead, but inside the back of the ambulance, this space feels strangely intimate—just me, Morgan, and the steady beep of monitoring equipment.
I tap the vein in her inner elbow, getting it ready for the IV line. Her skin feels soft beneath my gloved fingers, and I notice goosebumps rising where I touch her.
“Small pinch,” I warn, sliding the needle in smoothly.
She flinches, but her eyes never leave mine. The oxygen mask covers half her face, but I can read the fear in those stunning brown eyes.
“You’re doing great,” I say, securing the line with tape. “We’re getting you to Memorial. They’ve got respiratory specialists who’ll take good care of you.” I check her vitals again. “Oxygen levels are already improving. The worst is over.”
Her eyelids flutter, relief visible in the relaxation of her shoulders.
“These attacks can be terrifying, but you’re stable now.” I adjust the flow rate on her IV, surprised by my need to comfort her. Typically, I maintain professional distance—necessary when you see the things I do—but something about her vulnerability makes me respond differently.
Morgan’s hand finds mine, squeezing gently in gratitude.
The touch sends electricity straight through me, igniting a fire I have no business feeling.
Her fingertips brush against my wrist as she releases me, and my cock stiffens again, the metal of my piercing straining uncomfortably against my uniform pants.
Fuck. This is completely inappropriate.
I shift on the bench, trying to reposition without drawing attention. The movement only makes things worse, my erection now pressing visibly against my thigh. I grab her chart, placing it casually over my lap as I pretend to review her information.
Morgan’s eyes flicker downward briefly before darting back to my face. Her cheeks flush crimson, spreading down her neck and disappearing beneath her collar.
Jenkins calls back from the driver’s seat, “Five minutes to Memorial!”
I clear my throat, grateful for the interruption. “Almost there,” I tell her, my voice huskier than intended.
She nods, that blush blazing across her skin, eyes now avoiding mine. Her pulse monitor beeps faster, and I’m not sure if it’s lingering anxiety or the fact that her EMT is as hard as a rock while treating her.
The ambulance backs into the emergency bay at Memorial, and I force myself to regain composure. By the time Jenkins opens the rear doors, I’ve managed to will away my inappropriate reaction, though the memory of it burns hot in my mind.
“Twenty-nine-year-old female, severe asthma attack complicated by panic response,” I report to the attending physician as we wheel Morgan through the automatic doors. “Albuterol inhaler ineffective, responded well to Benralizumab. Oxygen levels stabilized en route.”
The hospital staff swarm around her gurney like worker bees, checking vitals and preparing to transfer her to a hospital bed.
I stay beside her through the handoff, my hand resting on the rail near hers.
It’s standard procedure to remain until the patient is fully transferred to hospital care, but tonight it feels personal.
The attending physician nods after reviewing her chart. “We’ll take it from here.”
Those five words shouldn’t bother me. I hear them every shift, multiple times a day. But tonight, I’m reluctant to step back.
I lean closer to Morgan, whose breathing has normalized, though her eyes still hold residual fear. “You’re in good hands now. They’ll run some tests, probably keep you overnight for observation.”
She blinks up at me, those dark eyes searching mine. Her fingers reach out suddenly, grasping my wrist. She points at the oxygen mask with her other hand.
“You want to say something?” I ask.
She nods.
I glance at the monitors—her stats are good enough for a moment without supplemental oxygen. I gently lift the mask from her face, leaning closer to hear her.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice hoarse. “You saved me.”
Something in her tone triggers a memory—the identical tone of gratitude from someone else I’d saved, years ago.
A woman with bruises hidden beneath her clothes, terror in her eyes that wasn’t simply from her injuries.
I’d recognized the signs immediately. The same instinct flares now as I notice the haunted look in her beautiful brown eyes.
What secrets do those eyes hide, princess?
“Just doing my job,” I reply, but I know that’s not entirely true.
I’ve already decided I’ll investigate her background later.
Just to make sure she’s okay, I tell myself.
Just to check she’s not in danger. I memorized her name and address when her friend handed me her insurance card and ID. I know enough to find her.
Morgan’s gratitude strikes a chord with a very dark and primal part of me that I try hard to conceal from the world. Her eyes hold mine for a heartbeat too long, and in that moment, I know I’m utterly fucked.
“Time to roll,” Jenkins calls. “Dispatch has three calls stacking up.”
I nod. “Copy that.”
But as I step away from Morgan’s bedside, something unfamiliar claws at my chest. I’m used to walking away—from patients, from scenes of my vigilante justice, from emotional attachments of any kind. Clean entry, clean exit. It’s my mantra.
Yet Morgan Cole has just become more than a patient. More than a woman. Something in those frightened eyes speaks to both sides of me—the healer and the hunter, the savior and the executioner. She’s become a dangerous complication in my life.
And I already know I won’t be able to stay away.