Chapter 6 - Faint Pulses
The heavy oak doors of the mansion clicked shut, sealing out the damp evening air and the flashing red-and-blue lights of the sheriff cruisers idling at the end of the paved driveway. Rafael had managed to stall them at the portico, trading sharp words and legal bluffing until Deputy Miller and his partner finally retreated down the access road, convinced by a locked gate and a forged maintenance log that no black SUV had entered the grounds. But the close call left a heavy, vibrating tension in the air. By midnight, the adrenaline that had kept me upright for hours finally evaporated, leaving behind a deep, bone-weary exhaustion and a rising, feverish heat beneath my bandages.
I sat on the edge of the high-backed velvet armchair in the guest suite, staring into the dark hearth where a small fire had burned down to glowing embers. Every inhale felt like drawing broken glass into my lungs. The bullet had missed my vital organs by less than an inch, but the trauma to my chest wall was beginning to demand a heavy toll. Soft footsteps padded across the Persian rug, and Rafael appeared from the adjoining hallway, carrying a white ceramic bowl of cold water and a stack of clean linen gauze. He didn't ask how I felt; he could see the gray pallor of my skin and the damp sheen of sweat clinging to my forehead.
"Lie back," he instructed quietly, pulling a heavy oak chair close to the mattress.
"I'm fine," I muttered, my voice cracking slightly as I tried to shift my weight away from the pillows.
"You're shaking, Wren. That's not fine," Rafael said, his tone firm as he gently placed a hand on my good shoulder, guiding me down against the pillows without a trace of roughness. The tattoos on his forearm caught the flickering amber light of the dying hearth as he uncapped a small bottle of antiseptic.
Working with practiced precision, he unbuttoned the top of my blood-stained scrub shirt, his fingers brushing the edge of the white gauze taped securely over the entry wound. Despite the pain, my breath hitched—not from the physical sting, but from the sudden, unbearable closeness of him. In the quiet dark of the estate, away from the gunfire and the flashing cruisers, the heavy barrier between the guard and the wounded outsider dissolved entirely. He didn't treat me like a liability or a witness to be managed; he looked at me with an intense, unwavering focus that made the rest of the world fall completely away.
"You should have let the deputies search," I whispered, breaking the silence as he pressed a cool, damp cloth against my heated skin. "If they found the ledger pages..."
"They didn't find them," Rafael interrupted, his dark eyes meeting mine in the dim light. "And they won't. This estate is sealed. Isabetta has the local judge on the phone right now, locking down search requests until morning. You did the right thing bringing Toby's paperwork here."
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"Toby didn't think anyone would look twice at the clinic's supply ledger," I murmured, my eyelids growing heavy as the cool water eased the fever beneath my skin. "He just wanted the discrepancies documented before the audit committee met."
"And instead, someone put a target on his back—and yours," Rafael replied grimly, his thumb brushing lightly across my wrist as he checked my pulse. "Sleep, Wren. I'm staying right here."
