Page 9 of The Beast’s Broken Angel

Even in pain and partially undressed, the man radiated dangerous authority.

Extensive scarring covered the right side of his face and neck, extending downward beneath his blood-soaked shirt.

Heterochromatic eyes—one ice blue, one amber—surveyed the room with cold calculation despite his injury.

Blood had soaked through hastily applied field dressings near his collarbone, though the bleeding appeared somewhat controlled .

“I don't need a hospital,” the patient growled, attempting to rise before pain forced him back down. His voice carried the unmistakable cadence of wealth and education, at odds with the violence suggested by his injury. “Just patch it and discharge me.”

Dr. Hayes looked uncomfortable, his eyes darting between the patient and the imposing men surrounding him. “Sir, standard protocol for gunshot wounds requires?—”

“There is no gunshot wound,” one of the suited men interrupted smoothly. “Mr. Calloway experienced a household accident involving workshop equipment. The paperwork reflects this.”

I stepped forward, my exhaustion momentarily forgotten as professional concern overrode intimidation. The wound clearly needed proper treatment, regardless of its suspicious origin.

“I'm Noah Hastings, trauma nurse,” I introduced myself, ignoring the intimidating entourage to focus solely on the patient. “The bullet's grazed an old injury site, causing additional damage to scar tissue. Moving against medical advice risks permanent mobility limitation in your right shoulder.”

My direct assessment caused the scarred man to pause.

Those unsettling dual-coloured eyes studied me with unexpected intensity.

Something cold and calculating in that gaze made my stomach tighten, but I held steady, meeting his stare without flinching.

I'd grown up in London's roughest council estates; it took more than a hard look to make me back down.

A sudden burst of commotion from the hallway drew everyone's attention.

Through the window, I could see the armed man approaching our trauma bay, weapon raised, determination hardening his tear-streaked face.

One of the suited men immediately moved toward my patient, drawing a concealed weapon from beneath his jacket .

“Stay with the patient,” the Eastern European man instructed me firmly. “My associates will handle this.”

Before I could process what was happening, two of the suited men slipped into the hallway while the others formed a tighter barrier around the scarred man's bed. Dr. Hayes and the other medical staff retreated to protect the remaining patients, leaving me alone beside the gunshot victim.

“You have experience with burn scar tissue?” he asked with surreal calm, as though there weren't an armed confrontation about to erupt just outside.

“Three years at the Queen Mary Burns Unit before transferring to trauma,” I confirmed, automatically checking his vital signs while trying to maintain awareness of the unfolding danger.

“Your scarring shows evidence of multiple grafting procedures. The bullet wound has torn through one of these transition areas, which heal differently than primary scar tissue.”

A muffled shout from the hallway, then the distinctive sound of a struggle. I tensed, preparing to shield my patient if necessary, professional duty temporarily overriding self-preservation. The scarred man observed my positioning with something like amused assessment.

“You'd put yourself between me and a bullet?” he asked, curiosity evident beneath the pain lines tightening his face. “Interesting choice, given you know nothing about me.”

“I'm a trauma nurse,” I replied simply. “It's what we do.”

A single gunshot from the hallway made everyone flinch. Then silence, followed by the controlled voices of security personnel announcing the all-clear. The suited men visibly relaxed, though they maintained their protective positions.

“Situation neutralised,” the Eastern European man reported, returning to the trauma bay. “We should move quickly, sir. ”

“What happened to Wilson?” I asked, unable to contain my concern for what had transpired.

“He's been subdued,” came the carefully worded response that told me nothing while implying everything. “No hospital personnel were harmed.”

I returned my attention to my patient, examining his wound more thoroughly now that the immediate threat seemed contained.

“This will hurt,” I warned before probing the damaged tissue.

To his credit, the man barely flinched, though I felt his muscles tense beneath my fingers.

“The bullet grazed rather than penetrated, but it's disrupted the graft site significantly.

You'll need proper debridement and potentially revision surgery to prevent contracture.”

The wound pattern and healing edges suggested this injury was at least several hours old, predating Wilson's hospital intrusion. Whatever violence had brought this man here had occurred well before today's confrontation.

“Temporary measures only,” he countered firmly. “I have access to specialist care.”

I cleaned the wound methodically, applying antiseptic with careful movements.

The scarring beneath my hands told a story of catastrophic injury and painstaking reconstruction.

Third-degree burns covering approximately forty percent of his visible upper body, with evidence of multiple surgical interventions over what must have been years of recovery.

“What's your pain level? Scale of one to ten,” I asked, preparing to place sutures.

“Irrelevant,” he replied, his eyes never leaving my face.

I held his gaze steadily. “Not to me. I need to know whether to administer additional analgesics before suturing.”

A ghost of something like amusement touched his lips. “Four. Manageable.”

I suspected he was understating considerably but didn't argue.

As I worked on closing the wound, I became increasingly aware of the unusual dynamic in the room.

The suited men maintained their vigilant positions, occasionally speaking into concealed communication devices.

The patient himself remained unnaturally still, his breathing controlled, his attention divided between my medical ministrations and something occurring beyond the curtained bay.

When I finally applied the final dressing, I stepped back to assess my work. “The sutures need to stay dry for at least forty-eight hours. Dressing changes twice daily. You'll need antibiotics to prevent infection at the graft site. And the shoulder should be immobilised to?—”

“That won't be necessary,” he interrupted, already moving to sit up.

“It absolutely will be necessary unless you fancy permanent mobility issues,” I countered, fatigue making me blunter than professional standards typically allowed. “Scar tissue doesn't heal like normal tissue. Ignore that reality at your own peril.”

Our eyes locked again, the tension in the room ratcheting higher as his guards shifted uncomfortably at my direct challenge. After a moment that stretched uncomfortably long, the corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been begrudging amusement.

“I'll take your recommendations under advisement,” he conceded, though the words held no real commitment.

Before I could respond, my pager buzzed urgently. I checked it with a sinking feeling—Isabelle's room number flashed on the small screen. My sister never paged me during shifts unless something was wrong.

“I need to go,” I said, already mentally calculating the fastest route to the oncology ward. “Dr. Hayes will complete your discharge paperwork. ”

The scarred man—Calloway, they'd called him—nodded dismissively, already conferring with one of his associates. I stripped off my gloves and hurried from the trauma bay, concern for Isabelle temporarily displacing all thoughts of the mysterious patient and his intimidating entourage.

I slipped into Isabelle's private room fifteen minutes later, heart pounding from racing up four flights of stairs when the lift proved too slow.

Relief washed through me when I found her sitting up in bed, sketching despite the late hour.

Her thin face brightened at my appearance, though her artist's eye immediately catalogued my exhaustion.

“You're working doubles again,” she accused softly, setting aside her charcoal pencil. The hospital bed made her look smaller than her twenty-two years, her frame diminished by months of aggressive treatment. Despite this, her eyes remained bright, her spirit stubbornly intact.

“Just helping with a major trauma response,” I deflected, checking her medication pumps with professional assessment.

The experimental treatment dripped steadily into her veins, each precious drop costing more than I made in a day.

Insurance covered barely sixty percent despite my countless appeals and hours spent arguing with bureaucrats.

“There was an announcement about some security situation,” she said, worry creasing her brow. “They locked down our floor briefly. Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” I assured her. “Just a minor incident in A&E. Nothing for you to worry about.” I deliberately steered the conversation away from the armed confrontation, knowing how she fretted about my safety. “Why did you page me? Is everything alright? ”

Isabelle hesitated, gnawing her lower lip in a nervous habit she'd had since childhood. “Dr. Whitman came by earlier. He said my latest blood work shows improvement, but...” She trailed off, fingers twisting in the hospital blanket.

“That's brilliant news,” I said, trying to inject enthusiasm into my voice despite the ominous pause. “What's the but?”

“The treatment authorisation expires next month,” she finally said, eyes dropping to her sketch. “We need to reapply. Dr. Whitman said to prepare for the possibility that it won't be approved for extension since it's still experimental.”