Chapter 8
Rico
Waking up the second time is worse, not because the pain is necessarily stronger than it was before, but because there is no distance between me and it now.
The first time, everything was fractured and blurred, the sounds around me distant enough that the pain felt like something happening to me rather than something I was completely inside.
This time there is nowhere to hide from it.
Pain settles into my body as though it belongs there, sharp and deliberate, radiating from my side until every breath becomes something I have to measure before I take it.
I draw in a slow breath, testing the limits of my lungs, and immediately regret the decision when the pain answers with brutal precision. Good. That means I am still here.
My eyes open gradually, and the light is less aggressive this time, allowing my vision to adjust faster as the room begins to take shape around me.
Ceiling. Walls. Movement at the edges of my vision.
The same room, the same situation, but a completely different awareness of both.
The voices around me are quieter now, controlled rather than chaotic, and that tells me what I need to know.
They stabilized me. At least for now. I shift my gaze without moving my head too much, taking in the two men positioned near the wall.
They are not tense, but they are alert, watching the room with the kind of constant awareness that comes from knowing something could go wrong at any moment.
Good. If they are still standing where they were before, then nothing else has gone wrong yet, and right now, yet is enough.
Then I see her.
She is standing beside the bed, looking down at something in her hands, perhaps notes or supplies, her attention completely absorbed in whatever she is reviewing.
More importantly, she is not looking at me.
That is new. Most people watch when I wake.
They wait for the moment my eyes open, watching for a reaction, a threat, a sign that I am aware of what is happening around me.
She does none of that. She simply continues working as though my consciousness is another variable she will deal with when it becomes necessary.
I find myself watching her for a moment, cataloging details without even thinking about it.
Her hair is pulled back again, keeping it out of her face.
Her clothes are slightly more disheveled than they were when she arrived, evidence of how long she has been here and how little time she has spent thinking about herself.
There is tension in her shoulders, but it is controlled, contained beneath the surface rather than allowed to become panic.
Everything about her seems controlled, yet there is something underneath it that catches my attention.
Frustration. Not fear. Not panic. Frustration.
She is not frightened by the situation nearly as much as she is irritated by it, and that tells me more about her than fear ever could.
I shift slightly, testing my body before I can stop myself, and immediately regret it when pain tears through my side with enough force to pull a low breath from my chest. Her head snaps up at once.
There it is. Attention. Her eyes lock onto mine, sharp and assessing, already scanning my face and body for changes before she even reaches me.
She crosses the space between us with efficient purpose, and when she speaks, there is no softness in her voice and no relief at finding me awake.
“Don’t. You move, you bleed more. I don’t have the resources to fix your mistakes twice.”
I almost smile. Almost. There is something about the bluntness of her that would be irritating coming from anyone else, but from her it feels strangely refreshing. “Not exactly the warm welcome I was expecting,” I manage, my voice rough but stronger than it was before.
She does not react to the attempt at humor.
Not even slightly. “Then adjust your expectations,” she replies evenly as she checks my pulse, studies my breathing, and examines everything that matters with the same precise efficiency she has shown since the moment I became her patient. “You’re not here for comfort.”
“No,” I murmur, watching her as she works. “I gathered that.”
Up close, I can see even more. There is precision in every movement she makes, an economy that tells me she does not waste energy on anything unnecessary.
Her focus does not waver even when she knows I am watching her, and that is unusual enough to hold my attention.
Most people feel the weight of my gaze. They react to it, even if they try not to.
She does not. She simply continues doing her job, as though whatever I am trying to communicate with my eyes is irrelevant compared to the numbers she is reading and the condition of the body beneath her hands.
There is something almost unnerving about that, because I am accustomed to people responding to me before I ever have to ask them to.
“Vitals are holding,” she mutters, more to herself than to me. “Barely, but holding.”
“High praise,” I say.
This time she reacts, though not in the way most people would. Her gaze flicks toward mine, and there is something sharper behind it, something that tells me I have managed to irritate her again.
“You’re alive,” she says. “That’s the only metric that matters right now.”
Direct. Blunt. Accurate. I study her for another moment, letting the silence stretch while I take in the woman standing beside my bed. “You’re not from here,” I say finally.
It is not a question. It is an observation.
She does not pause, does not hesitate, and does not give me the satisfaction of an immediate reaction. But I see it anyway, a slight tightening at the edge of her expression before she smooths it away. Controlled. Careful. “You’re not in a position to ask questions,” she replies.
Deflection. Expected.
I let it go. For now. Pushing too hard too soon rarely gives you answers. More often, it closes doors, and I have no intention of closing any doors until I know exactly what is behind them. “Doctor,” I say instead, allowing my tone to lighten despite the pain beneath it, “you always this intense?”
That gets a reaction. It is small, barely more than a momentary stillness in her hands before she continues what she is doing, but I notice it. “I’m trying to keep you alive,” she says. “If that’s inconvenient for you, I can stop.”
A quiet breath escapes me, something that might have been a laugh if it did not hurt so much. “No,” I say, keeping my eyes on her. “Let’s not do that.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The silence is brief, but it is not empty.
Something has changed between us, subtle but undeniable.
We are no longer simply exchanging information.
We are testing each other, measuring boundaries, trying to determine how far the other will push before one of us gives ground. I suspect she knows it too.
“Good,” she says finally as she adjusts something at my side. “Then we understand each other.”
Do we? I am not sure yet. But I am getting there.
“You’re not afraid,” I say after another moment.
This time she stops. Only for a second, but it is enough. Her eyes lift to mine again, sharper now, more focused, and for the first time I wonder whether I have touched something beneath all that control.
“I don’t have time to be afraid,” she replies.
It is not denial. It is not dismissal. It is simply fact.
That tells me more than she probably intended. People who do not have time for fear usually have something stronger driving them. Survival. Purpose. Control. Sometimes all three. “Most people would be,” I say quietly.
She straightens slightly, her gaze remaining fixed on mine. “I’m not most people.”
No. She is not.
That much is becoming increasingly clear.
I let the silence settle again while my mind works through everything I have observed since waking.
She was taken. Brought here against her will.
Forced to work under circumstances that would violate every professional rule she has spent years following, yet somehow she has not broken.
She adapts. She adjusts. She pushes back.
She challenges men who are accustomed to being obeyed, and somehow she does it without allowing fear to dictate her choices.
That makes her unpredictable, which makes her valuable.
Whether it makes her dangerous is something I have not decided yet.
“You saved my life,” I say after a moment.
It is not gratitude. Not exactly. It is acknowledgment, and judging by the way her expression changes, she understands the distinction.
“I’m keeping you alive,” she corrects. “There’s a difference.”
Fair enough.
“Then I suppose I should cooperate,” I murmur.
“That would be a good start.”
There is something almost dry in her tone now. Not quite humor, but close enough to make me wonder whether there is more beneath the clinical exterior than she allows anyone to see. Interesting.
My gaze drifts briefly beyond her, taking in the room again.
The men. Their positioning. The subtle shifts in movement that most people would overlook.
Everything is controlled and contained, which tells me that whatever happened to me has not been treated as an isolated incident.
They are watching. Waiting. Preparing. Whatever threat exists beyond these walls, no one has responded to it fully yet.
“Dario’s planning something,” I say.
Her eyes narrow slightly. “I’m not part of whatever you think is happening.”
Another deflection. Another boundary.
I respect that. For now.
“Maybe not,” I say. “But you’re here.”
That is what matters. Presence changes things.
It always has. A person can claim they are uninvolved, but the moment they are brought into the center of something, they become part of its consequences whether they want to or not.
Her jaw tightens slightly, but she does not argue, and that tells me she knows I am right even if she does not want to admit it.
I let my eyes close briefly, not because I am losing consciousness but because conserving energy matters more than anything else now.
Every movement costs something. Every word takes effort.
I do not intend to waste either. “Rest,” she says, and her voice is quieter now, less sharp but no less firm.
“You’re not strong enough to do anything else. ”
I do not argue because she is right, and because I have already learned what I needed to learn from this conversation.
About her. About the situation. About what comes next.
As I let the darkness settle around me again, I do not allow it to pull me under.
I simply hover at its edges, conserving what little strength I have left while my mind continues working through everything that has happened.
This was not random. It was not external. Someone made a move, and whoever that person is, they are still out there. They are waiting for a reaction, watching to see what we do next, expecting the chaos to give them an advantage. They will not have to wait forever.
Because the moment I am strong enough to stand, I am going to find them.
And when I do, I will not miss.