Chapter 5 - The Debridement
Clara slammed the door to Dominic’s private study open without knocking.
Dominic was sitting behind his heavy mahogany desk, his shirt unbuttoned, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the skyline. A half-empty bottle of bourbon sat beside a tray of unused medical bandages. His skin was flushed red with a rising fever, and sweat glistened along his forehead.
He turned his head slowly, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. “Clara? I thought you left.”
“You wish I left,” she said, marching across the room and dropping her medical bag onto his desk with a heavy thud. “Sit up.”
Dominic frowned, attempting to pull his shirt over his chest. “Clara, go home. You’re free. You don't belong in this world.”
“Shut up, Dominic,” she said, snapping on a pair of sterile latex gloves. “Your fever is at least 102. You have carbon contamination in your rib graze, and if I don't clean it out right now, you’ll be in an ICU by morning.”
“I have doctors—”
“Your doctors let you sit here drinking whiskey with an active infection!” she yelled, her eyes flashing with pure fury. “Now strip off the shirt and lean back before I strap you to that chair!”
Dominic stared at her, stunned by the absolute authority in her voice. Slowly, a faint, dark chuckle escaped his lips, though he winced in pain as he pulled the linen shirt off his shoulders.
“You haven't changed at all,” he murmured, leaning his head back against the leather chair. “Still bossing around armed men.”
“Someone has to keep you from killing yourself,” she muttered, pulling out a bottle of sterile saline, a scalpel, and specialized debridement forceps.
She stepped between his knees, leaning close to his side. The heat radiating off his skin was intense. Carefully, she removed the old bandage, grimacing at the dark, inflamed edges of the bullet wound.
“This is going to hurt,” she warned, looking into his eyes. “I don't have local anesthetic here.”
“I’ve survived worse, little bird,” he said softly, reaching up to gently touch the edge of her waist. “Do what you have to do.”
Clara began the process, her hands steady, precise, and ruthless. Every time the scalpel scraped away infected tissue, Dominic’s body went rigid. His muscles coiled like steel cables under her hands, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the armrests of his chair, but he didn't make a sound.
To distract him, Clara kept talking.
“Arthur told me about the vault,” she whispered, her eyes focused on her work.
Dominic’s breathing hitches. “Arthur talks too much.”
“Is it true?” she asked, rinsing the wound with saline. “Did you keep the blue thread?”
Dominic was silent for a long moment. Then, with his good hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, silver pocket watch. He pressed the catch, popping the lid open.
Inside, resting behind the glass face where a photograph should have been, was a coiled, three-inch strand of faded blue nylon suture thread.
Clara’s hands stopped. She stared at the tiny blue string.
“I cut it off the edge of the scar three weeks after that night,” Dominic said, his voice deep and rough with pain. “When the world got too dark... when I had to make decisions that ruined my soul... I looked at that thread. It reminded me that somewhere in this rotten city, someone had chosen to bleed for a stranger for no reason at all.”
Clara looked up from his side, meeting his gaze. The distance between their faces was mere inches. She could feel his hot breath on her cheek, smell the dark mix of whiskey, cedar, and fever on his skin.
“I didn't just save a stranger that night, Dominic,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I saved you.”
May you like
Dominic reached up, his large, warm hand cupping the back of her neck, pulling her down until her forehead rested against his.
“Then stay, Clara,” he begged softly, his pride entirely gone. “Don't stay because of a debt. Don't stay because of Ethan. Stay because I am a broken man who needs you.”
