Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #3)(7)

I blink at her. “Yes …?”




“You don’t sound sure.”

“I’m pretty sure. Put your mask back on—”

“You look like a TV doctor. Dr. McSpicy or something. What are your credentials?”

I look over at the paramedic who tries to chew her grin into submission. “You only gave her morphine, right?”

“Why are you in activewear?” Rose barrels on.

The paramedic snorts.

“Are you one of those CrossFit guys? You look like a CrossFit guy.”

I try to say no as the paramedic says, “Doc is definitely one of those CrossFit guys. My husband calls him Dr. Beast Mode.”

Rose’s cackle becomes a wince as the paramedic repositions fresh ice packs around the wound. Her grip tightens on my hand. “Who are you?” I ask the paramedic across Rose’s body. “Have we met?”

She smirks as she checks the infusion pump. “I’m Alice. I live around the corner from you on Elwood Street. My husband, Danny, is a personal trainer at the gym …?”

“Right, of course. Danny,” I reply convincingly.

Rose grins, her dark eyes pinned to Alice. “He has no fucking idea who you mean.”

“I know.”

“How long have you lived in Hartford?” My glare shifts from the paramedic down to Rose and softens—but only into wariness. Her blood pressure has improved a little with the fluids. But pain still carves its marks across her features, creasing little lines into the sides of her nose and between her brows. I try to pull my hand from hers so I can get a better look at her leg, but she doesn’t let go. “How long, Doc?”

I shake my head just a little to clear it, as though I might free myself from the way she looks at me. “Until we get to the hospital …?”

“No. How long have you lived in Hartford? Or maybe we should go back to the credentials question. I don’t want you amputating the wrong leg. Do you have short-term memory loss?”

Her faint smile is full of pity and mischief. But her dark eyes betray her. They’re searching. Filled with distress. Filled with fear.

“No one’s amputating your leg,” I reply, gently squeezing her hand.

Rose swallows. She tries to keep her face set in a neutral mask, but the heart rate monitor betrays her. “But the bone is sticking out. What if—”

“I promise you, Rose. No one is amputating your leg.” Rose’s liquid eyes stay fused to mine, dark pools of molten chocolate. I slip her mask back up over her nose and mouth. Even though she says nothing in reply, I realize her words have been repeating in my mind since the moment she passed out in my exam room. Help. Help. Help. “I’ll assist with the surgery,” I say. “I’ll be right there with you.”

Rose tries to nod again, and I place my free palm on her forehead, where her bangs cling to her skin. I tell myself I’m just doing it to keep her still. But something aches beneath my bones when she closes her eyes and a tear rolls down her temple. When I pull my palm away, I let my fingertips graze the streak it leaves behind.

What the fuck, Kane. Get your shit together.




I refocus on her vitals. Try to concentrate only on the blood pressure monitor and the steady beat of her quickened pulse. I can’t count the number of procedures I’ve done or medications I’ve administered or patients I’ve treated in my short career so far. But there’s only been one whose hand I’ve held in an ambulance. Only one whom I’ve brought through the emergency bay, one for whom I’ve sat in the blue vinyl chairs outside the imaging ward to wait for her X-rays, my knee bouncing with impatience. Only one for whom I’ve asked to scrub in at the surgical suite so I could assist the orthopedic surgeon with the hours-long internal fixation procedure. So I could be there to reassure her that I would keep my promise as she fell unconscious on the surgical table.

Only one whose whispered plea for help still keeps me here at the hospital, hovering near her bed in the recovery room, her chart clasped in my hands even though I’ve read it enough times that I could recite it from memory.

Rose Evans.

I’m absently staring at her sleeping form, her leg splinted and suspended. I wonder if she’s comfortable. If she’s warm enough. If she’ll have a nightmare about the accident. Maybe I should get the nurses to check on her again. Make sure her other minor injuries have been properly addressed.

I’m so engrossed in my thoughts that I don’t notice Dr. Chopra until she’s standing right next to me.

“Know her?” she asks. She pulls her reading glasses down from where they’re nestled in her silver hair so she can skim the details of Rose’s chart. I shake my head. She presses her lips into a line, the fine wrinkles around them deepening. “Thought you might, given the request to scrub in.”

“She showed up at my office in Hartford. I felt …” I trail off. I’m not sure what I felt. Something unfamiliar and urgent. Unexpected. “I felt compelled to stay.”

Dr. Chopra nods in my periphery. “Some patients are like that. Reminding us why we chose our path. Maybe you might want to scrub in more often? We could always use the help.”

A smile teases the corners of my lips. “I thought you’d given up asking.”

“It only took me four years to wear you down. Now that I know it can be done, don’t think I’m going to stop.”