Chapter Three: You’re Not a Normal Patient, Are You?
686 Words
By morning, Maddox Red was stable again—or so said the monitors. But RaySky wasn’t buying it.
She stood at the foot of his hospital bed, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, holding a chart she hadn’t read in twenty minutes. Mostly because she couldn’t stop staring at him. He hadn’t opened his eyes since collapsing into her like a sedated boulder.
But he hadn’t looked unconscious either.
“You’re not a normal patient,” she muttered.
The man was silent.
Almost too silent.
It was the kind of silence that made her skin itch. Like he was playing possum, or waiting for her to leave before slipping out a window and hijacking a helicopter. She’d seen movies like that. A lot of them. Enough to know that wounded billionaires didn’t just walk into ERs without IDs unless something sketchy was going on.
And sketchy didn’t even cover the fact that his wound had started healing faster than anything she’d ever seen. There were no signs of infection. No inflammation. Just clean, neat, surgical edges—like he’d paid his cells to behave.
She glanced at his face again.
Too perfect. Too sharp. Too… composed.
It annoyed her.
“Look,” she said, leaning in slightly, “you’re probably some secret heir to a chocolate empire or a hitman with a trust fund. I don’t care. But you can’t just waltz in here with a bullet hole and attitude and expect no one to ask questions.”
Nothing.
Not a blink. Not a twitch.
Ray groaned and turned to leave.
“RaySky.”
She froze.
Turned.
His eyes were open—barely. But open.
And they were watching her.
Oh, no.
Nope. That’s illegal. You don’t get to say my name in that voice, sir.
“Can you sit up?” she asked, ignoring the way her heart tried to leap up her throat.
He did. Slowly. Smoothly. Like his ribs weren’t just pierced by hot metal yesterday.
“How long was I out?” he asked, voice still that low, jagged whisper.
“About six hours.”
His gaze swept the room. “Anyone ask about me?”
“You mean besides every nurse, every doctor, and one weird intern who swears he’s seen your face in Forbes?”
He didn’t flinch. “And you? Did you tell them anything?”
She snorted. “What, like ‘Oh yeah, the mysterious gunshot hottie who collapsed into me and whispered weird stuff in his sleep is probably an international fugitive’? No. I didn’t tell them anything.”
He tilted his head. “Why?”
And now she was flustered. Which made her angry. Which made her sarcastic.
“Because it’s more fun keeping secrets with dangerously attractive strangers. Duh.”
To her surprise, the corner of his mouth lifted.
Was that a smile? Was Mr. Sin actually smiling?
“Thank you,” he said.
She shrugged. “Don’t mention it.”
“No. I mean it.”
And then—because apparently this day wasn’t weird enough—he reached into the back of his hospital gown and pulled out a thin, flat, glass card. It lit up at his touch, scanning his fingerprint.
A second later, it projected a screen into the air: a map, some encrypted files, a blinking red dot.
Ray backed up. “Okay, no. What is that? That’s not normal hospital tech. That’s alien-spy crap. What are you?”
He looked at her.
And this time, he didn’t smile.
“I need your help,” he said.
“Yeah?” she said, backing further toward the door. “Well, I need a nap, a raise, and therapy. So we’re both out of luck.”
“RaySky.” His voice stopped her again. This time, more urgent. “They’re coming.”
She blinked. “Who’s they?”
Before he could answer—
The power went out.
The lights. The machines. Everything—dead.
And from outside the hallway, came the unmistakable sound of boots. Marching in unison.
And then, a voice on the intercom:
“Secure Room 17. Target is inside.”
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- Writer
