Ethan was swimming up from the depths of a hard-won sleep when his phone
screamed into the silence. He jolted upright, heart hammering against his ribs,
and fumbled for the device. The screen glowed with a name that sent a fresh
jolt of adrenaline through him: Mrs. Elara Thorne.
He blinked at the time—8:00 PM. Why would she be calling now?
He swiped to answer, his voice rough with sleep. "Mrs. Thorne? Is
everything alright?"
The voice on the other end was calm, too calm, like the still surface of
water before a storm. "Silas has a fever. A high one. He needs to go to
the hospital. Can you arrange it?"
Ethan's blood ran cold. The wound. He was on his feet in an instant, the
last vestiges of sleep gone. "Understood. I'm on it. I'll have someone
there immediately."
He ended the call, his mind already racing through protocols. A public
hospital was out of the question; a gunshot wound would raise too many
questions. He punched in Nathaniel Sterling's number. It was time for the
private facility at the Rosewood Mountain estate.
Elara placed the phone down on the bedside table, her movements
deliberate. The screen's light glinted off her unnervingly steady fingers. She
had already packed a bag with essentials—a change of clothes, documents, a
bottle of water.
She turned back to the bed. Silas lay amidst the tangled sheets, his
skin pale and clammy. A faint sheen of sweat coated his forehead, and his
breathing was a ragged, uneven sound in the quiet room. Even in the dim light,
the angry, red inflammation creeping from beneath the bandage on his arm was
visible. Stubborn, reckless man, she thought, a cold knot of fear and anger
tightening in her chest.
A firm knock echoed through the room.
"Who is it?" she called out, her voice carefully modulated.
"It's Ethan, Mrs. Thorne."
She opened the door to reveal a harried-looking Ethan, his hair mussed
from sleep. He brushed past her and went straight to the bedside, pressing the
back of his hand to Silas's forehead. His brows furrowed in confusion.
"He feels warm, but... Mrs. Thorne said it was a high fever?"
"It will be," Elara stated, her tone leaving no room for
argument. She gestured to the blood-soaked bandage. "The wound is infected
and bleeding again. If we wait until he's burning up and delirious in the
middle of the night, it will be a spectacle. Do you really think summoning a
doctor to the Thorne residence, with all its prying eyes, is a wise move? Or
would you prefer to explain a gunshot wound to your Old Lady Thorne over
breakfast?"
Ethan's eyes widened slightly. So, she knew. He rubbed the back of his
neck, casting a sympathetic glance at his unconscious boss. You're in for it
when you wake up, Boss. He'd warned him to heal properly before charging back
here.
"Right. Let's move him," Ethan said, all business now.
They worked quickly. Elara looped Silas's good arm over her shoulders,
bearing as much of his weight as she could while Ethan supported his other
side. To any distant observer, it would simply look like the master of the
house, slightly worse for wear, being helped by his dutiful wife and bodyguard.
Ben had the car waiting at the entrance, engine purring. He swiftly
opened the rear door, and they manoeuvred Silas inside. Within seconds, the
sleek Maybach was pulling away from the ancestral home, its headlights slicing
through the darkness.
In a second-floor room, shrouded in shadow, a tall figure stood by the
window, a half-empty glass of amber liquid in his hand. He watched the
taillights disappear down the mountain road, his weary, calculating eyes
narrowing thoughtfully.
The Maybach ate up the miles, its speed a silent testament to the
urgency of the situation. In the back seat, Elara cradled Silas's head in her
lap, her fingers gently brushing the damp hair from his forehead. With every
passing minute, his skin grew hotter beneath her touch, his breath a scorching
gust against her wrist. The fever was taking hold, fast and fierce.
Finally, the gates of the Rosewood Mountain estate swung open. The villa
ahead was a beacon of light, and standing on the steps were Nathaniel Sterling
and a small team of medical staff, a mobile gurney poised and ready.
The moment the car stopped, it was a controlled explosion of activity.
Silas was carefully extracted, laid on the gurney, and an IV line was inserted
into his arm with practiced efficiency before he was wheeled towards a sterile,
well-equipped medical room in the rear building.
Elara followed, a silent shadow, her arms wrapped around herself. She
watched, her face a mask of composure, as the doctor cut away the old bandage.
The wound beneath was a brutal sight—an angry, weeping gash surrounded by
swollen, crimson flesh. Her stomach lurched, but she didn't look away. What
happened to you, Silas? What kind of world are you living in?
Ethan, standing beside her, heard her soft, involuntary intake of
breath.
"Mrs. Thorne..." he began, his voice strained.
She didn't take her eyes off the wound. "What happened,
Ethan?"
He shifted his weight, uncomfortable. "It's... complicated. It
would be better... coming from him." With that, he beat a hasty retreat,
pulling Ben along with him and leaving Elara alone with Nathaniel and the
unconscious Silas.
"The infection is significant," the doctor announced,
finishing the new dressing. "We've given him a strong antibiotic and an
antipyretic injection, but expect the fever to spike again tonight. He must be
monitored constantly. Call us if there's any change."
Nathaniel nodded. "We will. Thank you, Doctor."
As the medical team filed out, the room fell into a heavy silence.
Nathaniel turned his assessing gaze to Elara. She looked pale but impossibly
steady.
"You should rest," he said, his tone softer than usual.
"You're carrying children. Ethan and Ben can watch him tonight."
Elara finally lifted her eyes from Silas, meeting Nathaniel's gaze. The
composure in her deep brown eyes was formidable. "Will he be
alright?"
Nathaniel gave a casual, almost dismissive shrug, a stark contrast to
the grim medical scene. "It's just a gunshot wound. Didn't hit anything
vital. He's not going to die. Don't worry your pretty little head; he's walked
away from far worse."
The words, meant to reassure, felt like a bucket of ice water. Just a
gunshot wound. Far worse. The casualness of it painted a terrifying picture of
Silas's life, one she was only just beginning to glimpse.
She held Nathaniel's gaze for a long moment, then looked back at the man
on the bed, his cheeks flushed with the fire raging inside him. Her jaw
tightened almost imperceptibly.
"Very well," she said, her voice cool and even. "I'll
leave him in your care then. Goodnight."
She turned and walked out of the room, her back straight, her steps
measured. Nathaniel watched her go, a slow, intrigued smile touching his lips.
So cold? he mused. You just went back to your room without a second
glance. Well, well, Silas… it seems the ice queen's heart is still firmly
frozen. You've got your work cut out for you, my friend.