Page 2 of Uriel
The shaking finally subsides. I step back quickly, uncomfortable with the lingering sensation of her touch. My skin tingles where she pressed against me, a sensation both foreign and disturbingly pleasant. I push the feeling aside, locking it away in a corner of my mind to be examined later. Or preferably, never.
“Are you alright?” I ask, my tone clipped. I run my eyes over her quickly, assessing for injury. She seems shaken but unharmed, though there’s a small cut on her cheek that’s starting to bead with blood.
Emilia nods, a strange expression flickering across her face. For a moment, she looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. There’s something in her eyes—gratitude, confusion, and something else I can’t quite name. “Thank you,” she says softly.
I open my mouth to respond, though I’m not sure what I intend to say. But before I can speak, the moment is shattered. A doctor shouts from across the room. “We’ve got multiple incoming traumas! All hands on deck!”
I straighten, pushing aside the odd moment of connection. There’s work to be done. “Ms. Thornton, make yourself useful and help with intake,” I order. “I need to get to surgery.”
As I turn away, I hear her mutter, “Yes, Your Highness.”
The words are quiet, clearly not meant for my ears, but they reach me nonetheless. A wave of irritation washes over me, followed quickly by something that might be amusement. Even in the midst of disaster, Emilia Thornton manages to be athornin my side—a stubborn thorn, lodged in me for the past six months.
I ignore the jab, focusing on the tasks ahead. I am Uriel, Archangel of Repentance, defender of divine order. I will not be swayed by human emotions or petty conflicts.
As I make my way towards the operating room, I can’t help but cast one last glance over my shoulder. Emilia is already back at work, her face set in determination as she helps direct the flow of incoming patients. For a moment, I feel a twinge of something—admiration, perhaps, or kinship. We may disagree on methods, but our goal is the same: to save as many lives as we can.
I shake my head, banishing the thought. There’s no time for such musings. The next wave of casualties will be arriving any minute, and I need to be ready. With a deep breath, I steel myself for the long hours ahead. Whatever hell has broken loose in Los Angeles, I will face it head-on. It’s what I was created for, after all.
But as I scrub in for surgery, I can’t quite shake the lingering warmth where Emilia’s body pressed against mine. The sensation is... unsettling. Inappropriate. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath.
No.
With practiced discipline, I push away the unwelcome feelings, locking them behind iron walls in my mind. There’s no room for distraction, not when lives hang in the balance. I focus on the cool rush of water over my hands, the familiar ritual grounding me in purpose once more. My fingers move mechanically, scrubbing each digit with precise, efficient motions. By the time I’m done, I’ve regained my composure, my mind clear and ready for the grueling hours ahead. I glance at the clock—barely noon. It’s going to be a long day, but I am prepared.
I always am.
CHAPTER 2
Emilia
I’ve always believedthat rules are more likeguidelines, especially when people’s hearts are on the line. And right now, in the aftermath of the quake that just rocked L.A. to its core, there are a whole lot of broken hearts that need mending.
The ER is a warzone, and I’m navigating it like a soldier on a mission. Clipboard in hand, I weave through the maze of gurneys and harried medical staff, my eyes peeled for familiar faces among the wounded.
“Mama! Mama!” a little voice pipes up, and I spin around to see a young boy, maybe six or seven, his arm in a makeshift sling.
“Hey there, buddy,” I say, crouching down to his level. “What’s your name?”
“Tommy,” he sniffles. “I can’t find my mom.”
My heart clenches. I know I should send him to the designated area for unaccompanied minors, but one look at those tear-filled eyes and I’m a goner. I see myself in him—scared, alone, desperate for a familiar face. How many times did I feel that way, bouncing from one foster home to another?
“Well, Tommy, let’s go find her together, okay?”
As we set off hand-in-hand, I can practically feel Dr. Stick-up-his-ass Uriel’s disapproving glare burning into my back. His words from earlier echo in my head: “We need to focus on saving the lives in front of us, Ms. Thornton.”
Yeah, well, screw that noise. Saving lives isn’t just about patching up physical wounds. Sometimes it’s about healing the soul, too. It’s about being there,reallythere, for someone who feels lost and alone. Like Mrs. Chen, my last foster mom, was for me. The one who showed me what family could be, who inspired me to become a social worker in the first place.
I lead Tommy through the crowded hallways, asking nurses and orderlies if they’ve seen a frantic mother looking for her son. It’s against protocol, sure, but I’ll be damned if I let some arbitrary rules keep a scared kid from his mom. I know too well the ache of separation, the gnawing fear that you’ll never find your place again.
“Emilia!” a sharp voice cuts through the chaos. I turn to see Nurse López, her usually immaculate scrubs splattered with blood. “Honey, what are you doing? That child needs to be in pediatrics!”
I paste on my most winning smile. “Just taking a little detour, Linda. We’ll be there in a jiffy.”
She shakes her head, but I see the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “You’re going to get yourself fired one of these days.”
“Nah,” I wink. “You all love me too much.”
