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“Those fucking mother fuckers,” I snarl.
The waiting room is a stark expanse of cold white. Each chair, tile, and wall bleached to a sterile purity that feels at odds with the chaos we've just escaped. The air is heavy with antiseptic scents, coating the inside of my nostrils with the odor of cleanliness that attempts to mask the underlying fear and pain this place knows all too well. Fluorescent lights hum above, casting an unforgiving glare on every surface, leaving no room for shadows or comfort.
It's a place of waiting, of not knowing, where time stretches and compresses with each tick of the clock. I'm trapped in an oasis of calm that's anything but tranquil.
"I'm going to kill whoever hurt her," I mutter to myself as my fists clench and unclench with restless energy. "They better count their fucking days."
I can't sit. The waiting is a silent killer more threatening than any bullet. I murmur into the void, vowing revenge and promising justice. My mind is swirling with the faces of their assailants, and their features burned into my memory. A hit list that won't be ignored.
"Not a single one will see daylight if she doesn't walk out of here," I snarl under my breath, each word a venomous promise. My heart refuses to settle, and each beat is a drum of war for those who dared to aim at her.
Memories of the phone call flash in my mind. The one where Jacob's voice, usually so steady, cracked with urgency, telling me they were under attack. I grabbed Victor, and we hauled ass over to the bookstore, where Isabella met Seraphina. Where she was supposed to be safe. The fear that clawed at my chest on the drive over, the thought of losing her, fuels the rage, brewing a storm inside me that I can barely contain.
I was a man possessed. A force of nature fueled by one singular motive. To reach Isabella. The air was thick with gunpowder, and the bodies of those who made the fateful decision to stand in my way were strewn across the floor as nothing but lifeless obstacles in my path. I left destruction in my wake, unapologetic and unyielding.
They say hell hath no fury like a man scorned, but they’ve never seen a man like me fight to save the woman who’s slowly becoming everything to him. The men who dared attack don’t get a chance to regret their choices. They don’t get to wish they’d chosen differently. I made sure of that. With each pull of the trigger, I made sure they never lived another day to attack an innocent.
My fingers tremble slightly as I yank my phone from my pocket. I dial Victor with an urgency that's become second nature now.
The line clicks, and his gravelly voice is on the other end. "Yeah, boss?"
"Did you find anything?" I ask, struggling to keep the edge out of my voice.
After we arrived here, I could think of nothing else but to set Victor and Jacob on the trail of whoever dared to attack. Their resources are extensive, and their loyalty unquestioning, but this is personal.
"Yeah, we have Daniel, and it seems like he knows something," Victor says. "Since we were interrupted the last time we had him, I took him to the other location. No one will find us here. We’ll get your answers."
"No!" I bark into the phone. "Strip him and hang him up. Wait until I get there. He’s mine." My words carry the weight of a promise, a vow of retribution that will be kept. The lines between justice and vengeance blur in my vision, colored by the blood of the one I vow to protect.
My blood is seething with a need for vengeance so pure it's nearly sacred. I can almost taste the retribution in the air, a thick, copper tang of justice demanded by the violated sanctity of Bella's safety. They’ve awoken the beast, and there will be no reprieve, no mercy. Only the relentless force of my wrath.
The doctor strides into the waiting room, her expression one of firm professionalism, and I feel the phone slip slightly against my sweaty palm. The threat I leveled at this hospital hangs heavy in the air, an unspoken promise that they're painfully aware of. I keep my eyes locked with the doctor.
"How is she?" My voice is rough, all gravel and raw edges, every word a demand for the one thing I seek.
Isabella's safety. The implicit understanding is clear. They must give her the best care or face the full brunt of my power. They know it. I've made sure of that. I don’t just want their best. I demand it.
The doctor's eyes hold a guarded relief, an emotion that seems almost out of place in the sterile chaos.
"She's stable, Mr. Blackhart," she begins, and every syllable amplifies the tension in my chest. “Isabella and the baby are fine."
The weight of the world lifts off my shoulders as the doctor confirms that it was just a graze. No stitches are needed.
I blink as the words 'and the baby' ricochet in my mind like a stray bullet. I’m stunned, speechless. She adds, almost as an afterthought, that Isabella can take over-the-counter painkillers if she needs them. Nothing stronger, though, because of the baby. My hands, which have been clenched into fists, slowly relax at my sides. This nightmare could've ended much differently. A surge of fierce protectiveness washes over me. Never again will they be at risk.
"Can I see her?" I manage to ask while keeping my voice steady, though my pulse races with the force of a raging river.
"Yes," she nods, signaling towards the hallway. "Come with me."
I follow as the knot in my chest loosens with each step. A baby. We’re having a baby. I pocket away that jolt of joy, hiding it behind the iron façade that has become second nature. There will be time for softness later, away from prying eyes, when I can hold her in my embrace.
The hospital room is a stark white sanctuary that I step into. Isabella is sitting in the bed like a vision of resilience filling the hospital room. She looks much better than when I first brought her in. The flush of color has returned to her cheeks. Even now, in the aftermath of terror, her beauty is undiminished and perhaps even amplified by the strength she's unknowingly displaying. I stride quickly to her bedside as my eyes hungrily take in her form and seek evidence that she's truly unharmed.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
“I’m fine," she manages a soft smile, and her energy is a mere whisper of her usual fire. "It's just a flesh wound, Damien. Really."
Her words, meant to be comforting, stir a storm in me, but one look at her grit and grace and a reluctant laugh escapes me, half in disbelief, half from relief that she's speaking to me. She's alive.
