Page 26 of Toxic Temptation
Marissa’s fingers fly over the keyboard, but I already know what she’ll find. Nothing. Because Kovan Krayev doesn’t leave loose ends.
My heart starts up a dull, thudding rhythm of dread in my chest.
“I’m sorry,” she says with a shrug. “That’s all I have. Maybe they switched shifts?”
Or maybe they’re dead. Maybe he killed them.
I grip the counter to steady myself, fighting the urge to vomit.
My pager buzzes on my hip. As disgusted as I am with myself—a Code Red call means someone’s child is dying, for God’s sake—I am sneakily grateful for the distraction. I need something to focus on besides the growing certainty that I’m complicit in something horrible. That Sonya and Adelaide are bound and gagged in some dank warehouse in the Mission, waiting for a miserable end to their lives, all because they happened to see the wrong man’s face at the wrong time.
I leave all that behind as I pivot and run. I go as fast as I can toward the ER, muscle memory taking over. This is what I know. This is what I’m good at. This is all I can do.
The chaos of the emergency room welcomes me back. Parents crying in the hallway, nurses rushing between beds, the pent-up panic that means someone’s life hangs in the balance.
“Talk to me,” I bark, pushing through the crowd around a gurney.
“Ruptured appendix,” Dr. Carter reports. “Eight-year-old male, presented with severe abdominal pain.”
Eight years old. The same age as?—
Stop. Focus.
“OR, now,” I order. “Before peritonitis sets in.”
As we race toward the operating room, I grab the boy’s small hand. He’s writhing in pain, sweat beading his forehead, eyes fluttering between consciousness and oblivion.
I read his name off the chart clipped to the foot of his bed. “Hey, Robbie,” I say softly, even though I don’t know if he can hear me. “I’ve got you, okay? You’re going to be fine.”
It’s not about the words. It never is. It’s about the tone, the human connection in the middle of medical chaos. The promise that someone cares whether you live or die.
The way Kovan cared about Luka.
I shake my head, forcing the comparison away. This isn’t about him. This is about the child on my table, the child I can save.
“Where’s anesthesia?” I call over my shoulder.
The reply comes immediately: “Dr. Gupta’s prepping now.”
Minutes later, we’re in surgery. My hands move on their own, muscle memory guiding me through the familiar steps.Find the appendix. Assess the damage. Remove the threat.
But something’s wrong with the monitoring equipment. The readings are erratic, jumping between normal and critical without explanation.
“What the hell—” I start.
The machine lets out a shrill alarm, then goes silent.
“Dr. Gupta, switch to manual monitoring. Now.”
My hands don’t shake—they can’t, not in here—but inside, I’m screaming.
Before Kovan burst into my life, this was the only war I cared about. Jeremy and Shana—God, it’s been a whole week since I cursed their names.
I’m cursing them now, though. This equipment is their fault. The ever-growing stack of maintenance and funding requests piled up on their desk? That’s their fault.
And if this boy dies…
That will be their fucking fault, too. I hope the profit margin is worth it.
