Page 48 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost (Nightfall Syndicate #2)

thirty-two

Asher

" H eart rate one-twenty. Respiration twenty-six. Oxygen at eighty-nine."

The numbers click through my mind like ammunition being loaded. Twenty-five hours since Miguel walked through that door. Twenty-four and a half hours since Vanessa went into full crisis mode, her body convulsing in seizures that lasted forty-three seconds each.

Twenty-four hours since I called Remy.

The medical room's fluorescent lights buzz at sixty hertz, casting harsh shadows across her face. Too pale. Too still. I've positioned myself close enough to monitor every breath, far enough to stay out of the way when the doctors work.

"Blood pressure holding steady. One-ten over seventy-two." The relief in my voice surprises me.

Remy checks the dialysis machine humming in the corner, the one that saved her kidneys when they started shutting down. His green eyes are bloodshot, stubble darkening his jaw. He hasn't left either, not since I called him in as backup.

"Temperature's been normal for eight hours." Remy's fingers move over the IV lines. "Kidney function's back to eighty percent."

Miguel sits in the chair he claimed yesterday, tablet balanced on his knee as he reviews her latest blood work. The dark circles under his eyes match mine, but his hands are steady now. The brother-panic from yesterday morning has been boxed away behind clinical training.

"The neurotoxin's almost completely metabolized." Miguel's voice carries the careful control he's maintained since Remy pulled him aside twelve hours ago.

I remember that conversation. Remy's diplomatic but firm tone cutting through Miguel's emotional decisions. You're her brother first, which means you can't be objective. I need you to trust my calls on treatment.

Miguel had bristled, jaw tight. Then he'd looked at his sister's unconscious form and nodded once. You're right. But I'm not leaving.

They'd worked together since then. Miguel providing her medical history, Remy making the hard calls. It saved her life.

Vanessa stirs, eyelids fluttering. My breath catches.

"Nessa?" Miguel's professional mask slips as he leans forward.

Her eyes open, unfocused but aware. Real awareness, not the terrifying hallucinations that gripped her for eighteen hours straight.

"Kuya Migs?" Her voice comes out as a whisper, raw from the intubation.

Miguel's face crumbles with relief. "Yeah, sis. I'm here."

She blinks slowly, trying to focus. "Asher?"

"Right here, little bunny." The nickname slips out before I can stop it. Miguel's eyebrow raises slightly, but he doesn't comment.

"What happened? Feels like I got run over by something with terrible programming." She tries to sit up, winces, and falls back against the pillows.

Remy moves to her other side, penlight in hand. "Easy there. You've been unconscious for over a day. I need to check your pupils."

She submits to the examination, though her eyes keep drifting to me. "You look like hell."

"Charming as always."

The hint of a smile crosses her lips. "Did you sleep at all?"

"Sleep's overrated."

Miguel clears his throat. "Nessa, I need to ask you some questions about what you remember. Can you handle that?"

She nods, though the movement obviously costs her.

"The compound you were exposed to, do you remember anything about it? Color, smell, consistency?"

Her face scrunches in concentration. "It was... odorless. Like water, but thicker. And it burned when it touched my skin."

Remy and Miguel exchange glances. Remy nods at something Miguel doesn't voice.

"That confirms it," Remy murmurs. "Engineered neurotoxin. Specifically designed to target dopamine pathways."

"Which is why it hit me so hard," Vanessa adds, her voice getting stronger. "ADHD brain, dopamine dysfunction already. Perfect storm."

Miguel's jaw tightens. "Whoever did this knew your medical history."

The implications hang in the air like smoke. Someone had targeted her specifically, used her own brain chemistry against her.

My hands curl into fists. "They're going to pay for this."

"First, she needs to recover fully," Remy interjects, his diplomatic tone cutting through my rage. "Another forty-eight hours of monitoring, minimum."

Vanessa's eyes drift shut again, exhaustion pulling her under. "Sorry, guys. Still tired."

"Sleep," Miguel orders, his brother-voice overriding his doctor-voice. "We'll be here."

As her breathing evens out, Remy approaches me. "You should get some rest too. Real rest, not whatever you've been doing in that chair."

"I'm fine."

"You're running on fumes and stubbornness." His green eyes study me with uncomfortable accuracy. "She's stable now. The worst is over."

Miguel looks up from his tablet. "He's right. Go shower, eat something that isn't vending machine coffee. I'll stay with her."

The rational part of my brain knows they're right. The part that's been calculating worst-case scenarios for twenty-five hours straight refuses to move.

"Two hours," I compromise. "Then I'm back."

Remy nods. "Two hours. But make them count."

Two hours and seventeen minutes. Just over my promised two hours so that Remy and Miguel can't complain, but not so long that anything could have gone wrong.

I push through the medical room door to find Miguel hunched over his tablet, stylus moving across the screen as he updates her charts. Vanessa's still asleep, her breathing steady and even.

"Anything?" I ask, settling back into the chair I've claimed for the past day and a half.

Miguel looks up, noting my shower-damp hair and the fact I actually changed clothes. "Stable. Temperature's been normal, vitals good. She woke up briefly about an hour ago, asked for water."

I nod, pulling out my notebook to record the current time and her status. The familiar ritual grounds me after two hours of restless pacing in my apartment.

"She asked about you," Miguel adds, voice carefully neutral.

My pen pauses mid-stroke. "What did you tell her?"

"That you were getting some rest. She seemed... relieved, actually. Told her you looked like hell."

"Great."

Miguel sets down his tablet, studying me with those physician's eyes that see too much. "She also asked about the episodes. Remembers fragments—confusion, hallucinations. Wanted to know if her brain was damaged."

"What did you tell her?"

"The truth. That the neurotoxin caused some temporary neural pathway disruption. The episodes are getting shorter, less frequent. Her brain is healing."

I record Miguel's observations in neat columns, finding comfort in the quantifiable data. "Episode frequency?"

"Down to every six to eight hours. Last one was..." He checks his watch. "Four hours ago. Brief confusion that lasted maybe two minutes."

Better. Measurably better. The tightness in my chest eases slightly.

Vanessa stirs, eyelids fluttering. Both Miguel and I lean forward automatically.

"Nessa?" Miguel's voice carries the gentle tone he must use with all his patients.

She blinks slowly, gaze tracking around the room before settling on us.

"Hey." Her voice is stronger than it was this morning, less scratchy.

"How do you feel?" Miguel asks, already reaching for his penlight.

"Like someone scrambled my brain with a fork." She tries to sit up, winces, then accepts Miguel's help to adjust her pillows. "But better than yesterday. I think."

"Yesterday's a blur," Miguel admits. "You've been fighting some neurological aftereffects. Episodes of confusion while your brain processes out the toxin."

She nods slowly. "I remember bits. Seeing things that weren't there, thinking the walls were moving." Her gaze finds mine. "You were here the whole time."

"Someone had to monitor the situation."

A small smile crosses her lips. "The situation. Right." She looks around the medical room, taking in the monitors, the IV stand. "How long have I been here?"

"Over three days," Miguel answers. "You were unconscious for the first twenty-six hours. Since then, it's been recovery with some complications."

Her face scrunches in concentration. "I remember waking up. You were both here. Remy too." She pauses, thinking. "But after that... fragments. Like trying to remember a dream."

"That's normal," Miguel assures her. "The episodes affect short-term memory formation. But they're getting milder, less frequent."

She nods, then suddenly grips the bed rail as her expression changes. Her features blur with bewilderment, and she fights to concentrate.

"The code," she whispers, panic creeping into her voice. "Someone changed the encryption. They're in the system."

Fuck. Another episode.

Miguel moves to her other side. "Vanessa, look at me. There's no code. You're in the medical wing, recovering."

But she's already lost, her brilliant mind caught in neural static. Her gaze darts around the room, tracking threats that exist only in the misfiring pathways of her poisoned brain.

"They know about the files," she says, reaching out blindly. "Have to... have to secure the servers."

I catch her hand before she can pull at the IV lines. "Focus on my voice. You're safe."

For ninety-three seconds, she stares through us like we're ghosts. Then, gradually, awareness returns to her dark eyes.

"Asher?" My name sounds fragile coming from her lips.

"Right here."

She blinks, looking between Miguel and me with growing clarity. "Did I... was that another episode?"

Miguel nods. "But shorter than the previous ones. Under two minutes."

The fear that crosses her face cuts straight through me. "What if they don't stop? What if my brain doesn't heal properly?"

Miguel starts to answer, but I speak first.

"Then we'll figure it out." The words come out rougher than intended. "But you're getting better. Measurably better."

Her brilliant eyes scan my features. "You look exhausted. When did you last really sleep?"

"Sleep's overrated."

"Asher." Her fingers curl around mine, squeezing with more strength than she's shown since this started. "How long have you been here?"

I should deflect. Change the subject. Maintain the professional distance I've cultivated for years. But her direct gaze strips away defenses I didn't know I still had.

"Someone had to monitor your vitals."

"The machines do that."

"Machines fail."

She's quiet for a long moment, and I can see her processing not just my words but everything else, too. My appearance, the tablet full of her vital signs, the chair positioned for optimal monitoring angles.

When she speaks again, her voice is softer. "You're terrified."

The observation hits like a precision shot—accurate, devastating, impossible to dodge. I want to deny it, to retreat behind analytical detachment where emotions can't compromise judgment.

But watching her fight this poison, watching her mind fragment and rebuild itself while I stood powerless to fix it...

"I've lost people before," I hear myself saying, voice rough with exhaustion and fear. "But watching you fight this... watching your mind struggle and not being able to do anything..."

My vision blurs unexpectedly. Moisture tracks down my cheek before I can stop it—the same malfunction I experienced watching her seize, when terror broke through years of emotional control.

Haven't let myself feel this exposed since I was seventeen and failed to save my sister. But Vanessa strips away walls I've spent decades building.

Her free hand reaches up, fingertips gentle against my cheek. "I'm not going anywhere."

The promise breaks something fundamental inside me. Years of distance, of calculated control, of keeping everyone at arm's length to avoid exactly this vulnerability.

My thumb traces her cheekbone, confirming she's really here, really seeing me clearly. Not lost in neural static or fever dreams.

"Simple math, little bunny." I bring her hand to my lips, pressing them against her pulse point where I can feel her heartbeat, steady and strong.

"Can't function without you."