SAbrINA
The rest of the week passed uneventfully after Logan visited the clinic.
Marshall insisted on going back to his ranch after he was stabilized, and there was nothing I could do to convince him to stay at the clinic for observation.
Word spread across the valley that Angel Spring had a new clinic, and I had a steady stream of patients, human and otherwise, to keep me busy.
The first scream shattered the first moment of stillness I had had in days. More voices joined, a cacophony of fear rolling through the square like storm surge. My pulse thundered against my ribs before I’d even registered moving.
I was sprinting out of my office before my brain caught up, with my medical bag in my hand before I’d even registered.
The cold air slapped my face as I burst outside, the scene in the square hitting me like a gut punch.
The acrid stench of sweat and fear hung in the air, mingling with the earthy scent of damp gravel.
A crowd had formed, their faces tight with fear, their murmurs a low, anxious buzz.
And in the center of it all was Marshall.
My years of medical training kicked in, and my mind was already cataloging symptoms even as my heart raced.
Tonic-clonic seizure. Possible respiratory compromise.
The doctor in me took over, pushing aside the fear that threatened to paralyze me.
This wasn’t just a patient, this was Marshall, a man who’d welcomed me with gruff kindness as soon as I arrived in town.
His massive frame convulsed against the ground, muscles locking and twitching in violent spasms. Foam flecked his lips, his skin waxy and tinged with gray.
My fingertips registered the unnatural heat radiating from his skin even in the cool mountain air.
Somewhere in the crowd, a woman was sobbing, the sound punctuating the heavy silence like heartbeats.
Time seemed to stretch and compress simultaneously, the way it always did in medical emergencies.
My pulse roared in my ears, but my hands stayed steady as I dropped to my knees beside him.
The ground was cold and rough beneath me, the chill seeping through my pants.
“Give me space!” I barked at the onlookers, my voice slicing through the chaos.
They scrambled back as I rolled Marshall onto his side, my fingers checking his airway.
“Someone call Logan!” His pulse fluttered like a trapped bird under my fingertips.
It was too fast, too weak. Seizure. Advanced toxicity. Shit.
I yanked open my bag, my hands moving on autopilot.
The syringe of diazepam felt pitifully small against the enormity of what was happening, but it was all I had.
The needle slid home, the plunger depressing with a firm press.
Sweat dripped from my brow onto his shirt as I counted the seconds until his breathing stabilized.
Come on. Come on.
Three seconds. Five.
Then, blessedly, the tremors began to subside.
Someone muttered prayers. The smell of my medical supplies mixed with the sour stench of sickness. My breath came in short bursts. I couldn’t lose him. Not like this.
The crowd’s murmuring changed pitch, a ripple of movement spreading outward like a stone dropped in still water.
I felt his presence before I saw him. It was a shift in the energy of the square, the collective intake of breath from the onlookers.
Then the crowd parted, some stepping back instinctively, others moving with deliberate respect.
Logan didn’t run, he stalked, each step powerful and controlled, his face a mask of barely contained fury that wasn’t directed at anyone present but at the situation itself.
His eyes, those deep brown pools that usually guarded his emotions so carefully, now blazed with raw fear, not for himself, but for Marshall.
It hit me then, watching him move with such deadly purpose, that Logan Song’s cold exterior hid depths I’d only begun to glimpse.
His phone was already pressed to his ear, his voice a growl that brooked no argument. “Get the jet ready. Now.”
I barely registered the words, my focus locked on Marshall’s jerking limbs. “Keep him still,” I ordered, reaching for the sedative in my bag.
Logan’s hands clamped down on Marshall’s shoulders, his grip iron-strong.
The muscles in his arms stood out like cords, his jaw clenched so tight I could see the vein throbbing in his temple.
I felt the heat of his body radiating against my side, a steady presence in the chaos. “Tell me what you need,” he ground out.
The needle slid into Marshall’s arm with practiced ease, the sedative flooding his system. His thrashing slowed, then stilled, but his vitals remained erratic. My teeth sank into my lower lip. “We need advanced diagnostics, a full tox panel. Sedatives, fluids, things I don’t have here.”
Logan didn’t hesitate. “You’ll have them. My jet’s en route with a mobile ICU unit.”
My head snapped up. “You have a—?”
“Yes.” His voice was rough, his gaze unflinching. “It lands in twenty minutes. Trust me.”
And damn it all, I did.
The sheer speed of his response left me momentarily speechless.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to focus.
Marshall’s pulse was stabilizing, but his skin still burned fever-hot under my fingertips.
“He’s holding for now,” I murmured, more to myself than to Logan.
“But we can’t waste time.” I couldn’t afford to falter, not now, not with Marshall’s life in the balance.
Logan’s phone buzzed again, his expression darkening as he read the message. His fingers tightened around the device, knuckles whitening. “Reeve,” he muttered, stepping away to take the call. Through the crowd, I caught snippets. Something about the mine, about unusual activity. My stomach twisted.
When he returned, his face was a mask of barely contained tension. “Reeve says there’s been movement at the Roberts headquarters. New investors sniffing around, contracts being renegotiated. He doesn’t have details yet, but it’s suspicious.”
I glanced down at Marshall, his labored breaths too shallow, too fast. The pieces clicked together with sickening clarity. The implication hung between us, heavy as a blade. My fingers tightened around Marshall’s wrist. “This isn’t a natural progression of the shifter sickness. It’s an escalation.”
Logan’s nostrils flared, his wolf flashing behind his eyes. “Someone’s forcing the timeline.”
The roar of an approaching helicopter cut through the tension, its blades whipping the air into a frenzy.
I turned to see a black aircraft emblazoned with the Song Timber logo touch down in the field behind the clinic.
The helicopter was large enough to transport troops into battle.
I couldn’t believe it. It was an actual flying hospital.
A team of medics in crisp uniforms disembarked, wheeling a stretcher and equipment toward us with military precision.
The display of power and resources should have intimidated me.
Instead, I felt a surge of fierce gratitude.
In my career, I’d fought bureaucracy and budget constraints at every turn, watching patients suffer while administrators debated costs.
Now, watching Logan’s wealth translate instantly into life-saving technology appearing as if by magic, I understood something fundamental about him.
His fortune wasn’t just about luxury or status.
It was a weapon he wielded to protect what mattered.
A memory flashed through my mind of my mentor at medical school saying, “Sometimes the difference between life and death isn’t skill, it’s access.” The unfairness of that reality had always burned in me, but today, I was selfishly, desperately grateful for it.
Logan’s hand brushed my elbow as the medics took over, his touch fleeting but electric. “Go with him,” he said, low enough that only I could hear. “I’ll handle the rest.”
For once, I didn’t argue.
The medics transferred Marshall to the mobile unit with practiced efficiency, their movements smooth and synchronized. I fell into step beside them, my clinical instincts overriding my shock. One of the medics handed me a tablet displaying real-time vitals. “We’ve got him, Doctor,” she assured me.
Inside the unit, the hum of high-tech equipment surrounded us—monitors, scanners, machines I would only have access to in urban hospitals.
I worked alongside the team, my fingers flying over the touchscreen as I ran diagnostics.
The results flashed onto the screen, and my stomach dropped.
“His liver enzymes are off the charts,” I muttered.
Logan’s presence loomed in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame.
His eyes were locked on Marshall’s still form, the tension in his body palpable.
“Poisoning,” he repeated, the word a low growl that sent a shiver down my spine. “From the mine?”
I nodded, my fingers tightening around the tablet.
“The poison is in his system. It’s aggressive, fast-acting.
If we hadn’t gotten him stabilized…” I trailed off, the unspoken implication hanging heavy in the air.
“First, we need to flush the poison from his system. The medics are prepping the treatment now.”
His gaze flicked to Marshall, his expression softening for the briefest moment. “He’s strong. He’ll pull through.”
“He has to,” I said quietly, more to myself than to Logan.
The medics moved with precision, administering the treatment under my watchful eye. The hum of the machines filled the silence, a constant reminder of the stakes. Logan stayed close. I could feel his eyes on me, the intensity of his gaze almost a physical touch.
Logan stood silhouetted against the monitors, his profile carved from shadow and flickering blue light. When he turned, his eyes weren’t the cold obsidian I expected. They burned fiercely in a face usually carved from ice.
“You’re incredible.”
The rawness in his voice sent a shiver down my spine. Not admiration. Not gratitude. Something far more dangerous. Reverence.
I fumbled for sarcasm like armor. “Says the man who teleported a hospital to us.”
His thumb brushed my wrist. The contact lasted less than a heartbeat, but my skin burned where he’d touched. “It’s just money.”
“No,” I countered, holding his gaze. “It’s you caring enough to use it.”
Logan looked away first, clearing his throat. The muscles in his jaw twitched like he was chewing on words he couldn’t quite spit out.
After hours of touch and go, Marshall’s breathing had evened, his color returning in slow increments. Logan dragged a hand down his face, the exhaustion finally catching up to him. “Get some rest, Doctor.” His voice was gruff, but the edge had softened. “I’ll watch him.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but my body betrayed me with a yawn so wide my jaw cracked. The adrenaline crash hit like a freight train. My knees buckled, and I braced a hand against the cot to keep upright. Logan was there in an instant, his arm a solid bar across my back.
“Whoa.” His breath stirred the hair at my temple. “Easy, Doc.”
I wanted to protest, but my body betrayed me. I sagged into his embrace. His chest was a wall of heat against my shoulders. Closing my eyes, I let his masculine scent wrap around me.
“Stubborn woman,” he muttered, but his hands were gentle as he steadied me. Still, I hesitated, my gaze flicking to Marshall’s monitors.
Logan stepped closer, his warmth seeping into the space between us. “He’s stable. And you’re no good to anyone if you collapse.” His fingers brushed my elbow, just a fleeting touch, but it sent a current up my arm. “Go.”
For once, I didn’t fight him. I nodded, swaying slightly as I turned toward the unit’s cramped cot. The last thing I saw before sleep dragged me under was Logan’s broad back silhouetted against the monitors, his shoulders squared like he could single-handedly hold the world at bay.
And for the first time in years, I let someone else carry the weight.
Sleep came in fitful waves, my doctor’s brain still half-alert for the sound of alarms or changes in Marshall’s breathing. Sometime in the gray hours between night and morning, I surfaced briefly from dreams filled with beeping monitors and rushing water.
Through half-lidded eyes, I saw Logan still standing guard.
He’d pulled a chair close to Marshall’s bed, his powerful frame somehow fitting into the uncomfortable portable furniture.
His head was bowed, not in sleep but in what looked like prayer or deep thought, his large hand wrapped around Marshall’s wrist. The gesture was so achingly tender from such a formidable man that I felt my throat tighten.
When he sensed my gaze, he didn’t startle or pull away. Instead, he met my eyes across the dim room, a silent understanding passing between us. Neither of us spoke. We didn’t need to.
I drifted back to sleep with the realization that I’d glimpsed something precious and rare. Logan Song with his walls completely down. And what I’d seen behind those walls made my heart ache in ways I wasn’t ready to examine.