His to Protect (Saving Hearts #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

MIREYA

My blood ran cold when the announcement crackled over the intercom. Instinctively, I hurried down the corridor. My sneakers squeaked against the polished floor as I sprinted past nurses and orderlies, my breath coming in sharp bursts, weaving between supply carts and equipment.

I rounded the corner just as the OR doors burst open. A gurney barreled through, and for one terrible second, I caught sight of the patient identification card clipped to the footboard.

Arthur Graves.

“We're losing him!” one of the nurses scrambling through the OR cried, her voice high and desperate above the chaos."

My chest constricted. The face of his wife, Rebecca, flashed in my mind—her trembling fingers wrapped around mine, her voice breaking as she whispered, Please take care of him. He's all I have.

The cardiac monitor's alarm pierced through the cacophony of voices, blaring machines, and the turmoil crawling through my senses as I pushed into the surgical suite. Arthur's vitals flashed red across the screen. Blood pressure plummeting. Heart rate spiking into dangerous arrhythmia.

“Get her scrubbed in now!” Dr. Riven Cross shouted across the room.

I froze for half a second, stunned. Then my training kicked in.

Without wasting a second, I made my way to the sink, scrubbing in desperation to finish as quickly as possible. The water scalded, and the sharp scent of betadine burned my nose. But it barely registered with the adrenaline pumping through me.

It had been five hours since my shift began, but giving in to the exhaustion was not an option.

Not when a man’s life hung by a thread.

"Time?" Dr. Cross demanded.

“Three minutes since BP started falling,” someone called out.

“Still dropping!” came another voice.

I dried my hands and forearms, keeping them lifted as I pushed through the OR doors.

I paused just long enough for my breathing to steady.

Sarah, the scrub tech, was already waiting with a pair of gloves.

And as soon as the latex snapped around my wrists, my focus narrowed to the calculated movements around the operating table.

Arthur was already intubated and under anesthesia, the ventilator hissing steadily at the head of the bed. The perfusionist stood ready at the bypass machine as the rest of the team took their positions, sliding into place with practiced ease, and moving in rhythm to save another life for the day.

I took a steadying breath and stepped into my designated space opposite the primary surgeon, attentively anticipating his needs.

“Bovie,” Dr. Cross said.

I handed him the electrocautery device before he could fully reach for it. His eyes never left the surgical field, his focus razor-sharp, and his movements precise. Just as they’d always been in the operating room.

In the OR, Riven Cross was a force of nature—cold, precise, utterly unshakeable.

He cut through Arthur’s skin and tissue with steady hands, blood pooling faster than the suction could handle. The sternal saw’s whine followed, slicing cleanly through Arthur’s breastbone before the retractor spread his chest open under the lights.

I swallowed, the metallic taste coating my throat even under my mask.

“Anticoagulated,” anesthesia confirmed.

Arthur's heart still struggled to beat as we secured the bypass cannulas. The perfusionist adjusted flow rates, and gradually—excruciatingly—the machine assumed control of Arthur's circulation.

“Bleeder,” Dr. Cross muttered.

I moved intuitively, placing the clamp where it should be, holding the vessel closed.

He adjusted the electrocautery and sealed the area, smoke rising, stinging my eyes behind my glasses. He released the clamp once the field stayed clear.

Before relief could settle in my chest, the monitor's pitch shifted. My stomach dropped.

"V-fib!" Dr. Leigh, our newest resident, called out, panic threading her voice.

"Internal paddles," Dr. Cross snapped.

I passed the internal defibrillator into his waiting hands while he barked out the joules. Arthur’s heart jolted violently. Once. Twice. But the monitor showed a weakening, chaotic rhythm that made my own heart hammer against my ribs.

Come on. Come on.

Dr. Cross’ face stayed calm, but his hands moved faster. “Again.”

Another shock. The heart twitched.

The monitor beeped. Once. Twice. Then it settled into a steady rhythm. The collective exhale was audible even through our masks.

“We’ve got a stronger rhythm,” anesthesia said.

Dr. Cross didn't acknowledge the victory. He was already repositioning, preparing to bypass the remaining coronary blockages. "Suction. Retractor. Stay sharp, people."

I gripped the retractor, my hands rock-steady now that the worst had passed. This was my element. When lives hung in the balance and split-second decisions meant survival or death, my body knew exactly what to do.

Even when my mind screamed I was exhausted.

The surgery dragged on for hours. My feet throbbed inside flattened sneakers and my lower back ached with every minute I stayed locked in place. Somewhere around hour nine, my stomach stopped growling altogether. The protein bar in my pocket stayed untouched.

Food could wait. Sleep could wait.

Arthur Graves couldn’t.

Dr. Cross worked mostly in silence, using words and gestures I had learned to read like a second language. Right hand extended meant delicate graft work. A two-second pause preceded critical dissections. He existed solely for the beating heart beneath his gloved hands.

When he finally stepped back and took off his gloves, the snap echoed in the quiet OR. Arthur’s heart beat steadily on the monitor. The grafts looked clean. Good.

Only then did I allow my shoulders to drop, the tension bleeding out of me as the case officially ended. I caught Sarah's exhausted smile behind her mask.

“Excellent work, everyone,” Dr. Cross said curtly, exiting the OR.

I stayed to help Dr. Leigh close, my hands moving through layers of tissue with muscle memory that let my mind drift. When I finally stepped away from the table, black spots danced in my vision and my knees buckled.

Sarah caught my elbow. “You okay, Mireya?”

“I’m fine.” I leaned against the instrument tray, willing the world to stop tilting. “Just need water.”

“You need sleep,” she said to me with a sharp look. “When was the last time you went home?”

I genuinely couldn’t remember. Yesterday? The day before? Time had blurred, one shift running into the next until I didn’t know where one ended and another began. I lost count of the meals I skipped and the fragmented naps I managed to steal in between surgeries.

I peeled off my gloves and left the OR, the adrenaline that had sustained me finally draining away. Reality crashed down as I trudged toward the locker room, every step an effort.

My reflection in the locker room mirror told the brutal truth. Dark circles had formed under my eyes. My skin looked gray and waxy under the fluorescent lights. Sweat-dampened strands of brown hair had escaped my surgical cap, plastered to my temples.

I looked like someone who'd forgotten what rest felt like.

Metal scraped softly as I pulled my locker open. My phone screen lit up immediately—five missed calls. Two from my landlord. One from hospital billing.

I sighed as I deleted the voicemails. I already knew what they were all about.

Past due. Final notice. Pay or get out.

A text from Lyra, my baby sister, lit up my screen. She wanted to know about how Mom was doing. Then immediately launched into how she'd aced her quiz and how her professor called her a natural. Mom was over the moon about it.

I typed back with trembling fingers and told her I was proud, adding in a heart emoji.

Too late for the "don't work too hard" part.

I shoved my phone away before guilt could take root.

I stripped off my scrubs and dropped them into the hamper, pulled on jeans, and a clean shirt before tying my hair back. Only then did I clock out. I drove home on autopilot, passing lights and empty streets in a blur.

The apartment smelled like chicken soup when I stumbled through the door. Mom sat on the couch surrounded by laundry, folding with careful, deliberate movements that betrayed her lingering fatigue.

“You’re late.” Her brown eyes, so much like mine, followed me across the living room.

“Emergency surgery. Touch and go.” I dropped my bag and took the towel she was folding from her hands. “I’ve got this.”

“I’m not helpless, Mireya,” Mom said.

“Never said you were." I folded the towel methodically. “But you're recovering, Mom. You need rest.”

She fell silent, studying my face with that unnerving maternal ability. She'd always been able to read me like an open book.

“That surgeon still treating you like furniture?” she asked.

I pressed my lips into a thin line. “Dr. Cross is focused on saving lives. That’s all.”

“Mm-hmm.” Skepticism dripped from the sound. “You saved a life tonight. Does he know that?”

I thought about Dr. Cross. He had offered a few perfunctory words after the surgery was done, already halfway out the door while I stayed behind with the resident to close.

“It’s fine, Mom.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.” I leaned down and kissed her forehead, breathing in her familiar lavender soap. "Sit. I'll make tea."

I got up and stepped into our tiny kitchen that barely fit one person. I braced myself against the counter and closed my eyes for a second, letting the world narrow to the hum of the refrigerator and the kettle filling at the sink.

The eviction notice was sitting in my bag. I didn’t take it out. I didn’t need to. But we only had three days left. Seventy-two hours before we lost this apartment.

And I had absolutely no idea where we’d go.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, pulling me out of my thoughts. It was an email from the hospital administration, requesting a meeting to discuss "an important matter."

My exhausted brain spiraled. Important could mean anything. Promotion. Demotion. Reassignment. Termination.

The kettle's whistle cut through my anxiety spiral. I poured chamomile tea and carried two cups to the couch, sinking down beside my mother. Some cooking competition played on TV, the contestants were racing against impossible deadlines to create elaborate desserts.

“Stressful,” I commented.

She raised an eyebrow. “Everything looks stressful to you lately.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

So, I sipped my tea and zipped my mouth.

We sat in comfortable silence, her breathing steady and even beside me.

My gaze drifted around our small space—the worn couch, mismatched bookshelves, the corners we'd made ours over the years.

Mom had raised Lyra and me alone after our father left.

Then cancer had nearly destroyed her. She needed this place—needed safety, familiarity, somewhere to heal without fear.

I couldn’t let us lose this apartment. I wouldn’t.

At ten-thirty, Mom shuffled to bed with the help of her walker. I retreated to my room and stared at my phone's calculator until the numbers blurred. Medical bills. Rent. Lyra's tuition. Groceries. Utilities.

No matter how I added it, the numbers didn’t make sense.

For months, I'd picked up every shift I could handle. Cut every unnecessary expense. Counted coins. Skipped meals and sacrificed sleep. But somehow it still wasn't enough. No matter how carefully I stretched each dollar, it hadn’t been enough.

We were still drowning.

Mom had no idea how close we were to the edge. I’d made sure of that. She needed to focus on healing, not worry about eviction notices and mounting debt.

I closed the calculator and set my alarm for five-thirty. I would have three hours if sleep didn’t elude me. That would have to be enough to get me through tomorrow.

My phone shattered the silence.

I bolted upright, heart hammering as I grabbed it.

"Hello?" My voice came out rough.

“Mireya Rosen? This is Jason from ICU. We have three criticals from a multi-vehicle pileup. Dr. Cross specifically requested you. Can you come in?”

The words washed the sleep from me like cold water. I was already on my feet, sprinting across my room to get changed.

“What are the injuries?” I asked, pulling a fresh pair of jeans from my creaky closet.

“Severe trauma and internal bleeding. Dr. Cross said he needs his best surgical assistant. Said he'll only work with you.”

My hands paused for a heartbeat.

His best.

Those two words hit harder than any compliment I'd ever received. From Dr. Riven Cross—the surgeon who barely acknowledged my existence outside of handing him instruments—that was practically a declaration of respect.

Suddenly, the bone-deep exhaustion didn't matter quite as much.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I promised.