The atmosphere in the VIP wing of Riverbend General Hospital had long since transcended the typical tension of a medical emergency. It had become a pressure cooker of class warfare, ancient medical rivalries, and raw, primal emotion. The air was thick with the copper tang of blood from Serena Ashford’s bitten lip and the lingering, sweet-sour scent of the spilled breakfast.
Derek Faulkner stood like a monolith of dark granite, his shadow stretching across the linoleum toward the man who represented everything wrong with Riverbend. His face was a mask of cold, surgical detachment, but beneath his skin, his focused force was roiling like a subterranean sea of lava. He had seen the horrors of the Deadlands, had looked into the Eye of Hell, and had survived the Inferno. To him, a man like Pet
