“Move,” she snaps, already at his side.
No one argues.
Not even me.
Because the second she steps in—
She owns the room.
“What happened?” she demands.
“Blunt force trauma,” one of the medics says quickly. “Multiple hits to the vest. BP dropping—”
“Internal bleed,” she cuts in. “I don’t need a guess—I need numbers.”
They scramble.
Good.
I move in closer, taking up position near Clay’s shoulder. Close enough to act if needed.
Far enough to let her work.
Lucas is on the other side, jaw tight, eyes locked.
Miles hovers near the foot of the bed, pacing like a caged animal.
“He didn’t stop,” Lucas says, voice rough. “He just kept going.”
Hannah doesn’t look up.
“Of course he did,” she mutters.
There’s something under that.
Something personal.
“Scissors,” she snaps.
They’re in her hand instantly.
She cuts the vest free, ripping it open with zero hesitation—
And the bruising underneath blooms into view.
Dark. Deep. Spreading fast.
Her jaw tightens.
“Damn it, Clay,” she breathes.
Not clinical.
Not detached.
That’s not a doctor talking.
That’s something else.
