Page 21 of Savage Saint

At the threshold, blood mixes with disinfectant, a metallic undertone that pulls my gaze directly to the man lying on a medical bed in the center of the room. A full medical room.

Clean. Bright. Organized.

And far more equipped than anything I expected to find inside a motorcycle club compound.

They’ve already set aside a tray with gauze and sterile dressings, saline, syringes, and enough basic supplies that my earlier concerns begin to ease. There’s an IV pole beside the bed, a bag already running into the patient’s arm, and a small monitor displaying his vitals on the opposite side. Oxygen and suction are mounted nearby, cabinets line the wall behind him, and through the glass fronts, I catch a row of neatly organized medication and more supplies.

There’s even a portable ultrasound machine tucked into the corner.

What the…

A groan from the bed pulls me into focus, and my gaze snaps to him, completely ignoring the three tall men surrounding his bed. Everything falls into focus. Assess and stabilize; I can do this.

The victim is pale and sweating, but his alert eyes meet mine. Good.

His shirt is gone, leaving his upper body exposed beneath the harsh overhead lighting. Thick dressings are pressed against his side and shoulder—there’s blood. A lot of it. Some of it has dried on his skin, but the fresh red is staining through both.

Nobody is panicking, though.

One man stands closest to him with stained gloves on, his large hands maintaining steady pressure on both areas. His focus moves from the patient to me the second I enter.

The other two—I know those faces.

Thiago and Ivan De Leon. They’ve been on the news here a few times, and each one left a dead body behind. This is bad. Really bad.

I mentally grab that thought and shove it into the same overcrowded box holding everything else I’m refusing to process. Kidnapping. Guns. Threat.

“Move.” Three sets of eyes turn to me, yet nobody moves out of my way. My brows pull together, a bit of annoyance thrumming through me. Turning my face, I look at the man who brought me here, and find he’s standing closer than I thought. “Are they decorative?”

A low snort comes from someone; I’m not sure who.

Saint’s expression doesn’t change. “Give her room.”

The De Leons move toward the wall, but the man applying pressure stays exactly where he is.

I point at him. “Name?”

“Rizos.” His voice is deep, his eyes sharp. “You handle trauma care?”

“Emergency nurse.”

“That’ll do.” I’m really starting to hate how they think medical training is interchangeable. There are things I can and can’t do. Diagnosing and operating are outside of my wheelhouse.

“What have you given him?” I ask, moving to the small sink beneath the mounted cabinets. There’s antibacterial soap, and I give my hands and arms a good scrub before plucking a pair of latex gloves. They’re large on my hands, but I pull them high and move to the victim. He gives me a small smile; his lips are still pink, and that’s a good sign.

“Nothing for the pain yet. Saline is running.”

“Good call.” My attention shifts for a moment to the clear bag hanging from the IV pole before following the tubing to the catheter secured inside his arm. “How long has that been in?”

“Ten minutes, maybe.”

“And he’s been awake this entire time?”

“Except for when I passed out like a bitch,” the man lying between Rizos and me mutters. My gaze snaps to his face. Sweat beads across his forehead, and up close there’s a slight grayish cast beneath his naturally caramel skin that I don’t like, but his eyes are focused. A little annoyed, even.

I’ll take it. Unconscious patients are harder to deal with.

“What’s your name?” I ask, already reaching for the dressing at his side while Rizos shifts, both hands adding pressure to the shoulder now. The wound on his right side is the one we’re unsure of, but him being this alert is a positive sign. Injuries like what Saint described can be deadly, and I’d rather know what I’m dealing with before getting his vitals.