The bathroom downstairs was a cold masterpiece of white marble and chrome. I didn't wait for Marcus or Asher to offer help I didn't want. I locked the door, stripped off my blood-stained scrub top, and went to work.
My hands didn't shake. I was a surgeon; I had closed chest cavities while monitors screamed and lives hung by a thread. A bullet graze was a simple task. I cleaned the wound with clinical precision, the antiseptic stinging like a thousand needles, but I didn't flinch. I threaded the 6-0 prolene and began the work. Stitch, knot, cut. The rhythm was familiar—a silent meditation that pushed the chaos of the last hour into a dark corner of my mind.
When the dressing was taped down and the bleeding had stopped, I stepped back out into the hallway. Nanny B was waiting there, her hands fluttering nervously against her apron.
"Oh, Miss Chloe... thank heaven you're okay. I've already put Leo to bed. He was exhausted, poor lamb."
