The Hospital

The van swerves into the hospital driveway so fast the tires screech. Damien throws the door open before the vehicle even stops. He lifts Ivy with both arms. Her body is limp, head rolling against his shoulder. Her clothes hang in strips, soaked in dirt and dried blood. His ribs scream as he bolts through the sliding doors, but he keeps going.

“Doctor,” Damien shouts. His voice blasts across the lobby. “Now. Someone get a doctor now.”

The nurses freeze for a second when they see Ivy. One of them drops a clipboard. Another jolts into action and hits an emergency button on the wall. A team rushes out from behind a desk. They take one look at Ivy and guide Damien toward a hallway.

“Bring her in here,” one of them says.

Damien hesitates for half a breath, thinking they might take her from him, but they push open a door to a bright room marked VIP. He carries Ivy inside and lays her carefully on the bed they point to. Her head sinks into the pillow, her chest rising unevenly.

The doctor walks in fast and pulls gloves on. His eyes move over Ivy’s body in quick sweeps. “What happened,” he asks. His voice stays steady even though his jaw tightens.

“She was taken,” Damien says. The words scrape out of him. “She was beaten. Shock. Stress. Just help her.”

“We will,” the doctor says. “Step back.”

Damien steps away but stays close enough to grab anyone who touches her wrong. His men line the doorway in silence, blood still on their clothes, guns hidden but ready.

The doctor checks her pulse, her breathing, her pupils. He turns her wrist gently. He looks at a cut across her shoulder and presses lightly. Ivy winces in her sleep. Damien almost lunges forward.

The doctor raises a hand. “She is reacting. That is good.”

Nurses move around the room quickly, attaching monitors, hooking her to fluids, cleaning the wounds with fast, practiced motions. Damien watches every movement. His hands shake. He keeps clenching and unclenching them.

“How bad?” Damien asks.

The doctor keeps working. “Her blood pressure is very high. Probably from fear, stress, and exhaustion. She has bruising but no internal bleeding. No broken bones. She is dehydrated and in shock. She will need rest for a few days.”

Damien lets out a breath he had been holding since he kicked in that warehouse door. It comes out rough, shaky. The doctor reaches for a syringe.

“What is that,” Damien snaps.

“Relax,” the doctor says. “Sedative. Light dose. It will calm her body so she can recover.”

Damien nods. The doctor injects the medicine slowly into the IV line. Within seconds Ivy’s trembling eases. Her breathing smooths out. Her face loosens from pain.

“She will wake up when her body is ready,” the doctor says. He writes something on a chart. “You can stay with her. She will need a familiar voice when she opens her eyes.”

Damien pulls a chair to her bedside and sits. The pain tearing through his ribs settles into a hot pulse, but he ignores it. He takes her hand gently. Her fingers are cold, but they twitch a little as if she recognizes the touch.

His men remain outside the door, standing guard, their expressions sharp and focused. They do not speak. They do not move. They know what this means.

Hours pass. Damien never leaves her side. Doctors come and go. Nurses check vitals and adjust fluids. Damien only speaks when they ask something. Otherwise he stays silent, eyes locked on Ivy’s face.

At one point a nurse tries to suggest he rest. Damien looks at her and she walks right out without another word.

Ivy breathes steadily now. The color slowly returns to her cheeks. The bruises remain dark and raw, but her face looks calmer.

Damien leans forward and brushes her hair away from her forehead with his fingers. “I am here,” he says softly. It is the first time his voice is not angry or sharp. “You are safe now. Nothing will reach you again. Not while I am breathing.”

Her eyelids flutter a little. Not fully. Just enough for his breath to catch. He holds her hand tighter.

Her lips part. A small sound escapes her throat. He stands immediately. “Ivy. I am here.”

Her face tightens as if she is fighting her way to the surface. Her eyes slowly open, unfocused at first. She blinks, tries to speak, but her voice is nothing but a broken whisper.

He leans closer. “It is me. You are at the hospital. You are okay.”

She tries to lift her hand, but it only trembles. He takes it and holds it still. Her eyes fill with tears instantly, and one rolls down her cheek. Damien wipes it with his thumb.

“I got you out,” he says quietly. “I am not leaving.”

She opens her mouth again, but tears cut her words apart. She stops trying. Her chest rises and falls, shaky but alive.

“You are safe,” Damien says again. He presses his forehead to her hand. “I swear you are safe.”

She closes her eyes, still crying softly. She is conscious enough to feel the pain, but calm enough to trust him. Her hand grips his weakly, but it is enough. Damien stays that way for a long time.

After a while she drifts back into sleep, not from danger but from exhaustion. The doctor comes in again, checks the monitors, nods in approval, and leaves quietly.

The hallway stays silent except for the low murmur of Damien’s men keeping watch.

Night falls.

Damien remains seated, elbows on his knees, head low. He breathes steadily now, but every few minutes his jaw clenches as the image of Ivy tied up in that warehouse flashes in his mind.

He presses two fingers to his ribs. The pain spikes, sharp and deep. He knows something is cracked, maybe broken, but he does not care. He will deal with it later. Ivy comes first.

A nurse enters with a small tray. “Wound check for you,” she says.

Damien looks up. “Not now.”

“It will be quick.”

“I said not now.”

The nurse swallows and leaves. Damien rubs his face with both hands. His palms come away stained with dried blood, some his, most not.

Outside the window, the night is quiet. Cars pass here and there in the parking lot. A security guard drags a trash bin across the sidewalk. Normal life feels distant.

His phone buzzes.

Killan.

Damien answers fast. “What.”

“We got all of the bodies cleared,” Killan says. “We took care of the street. No witnesses. No police.”

“Good.”

“We caught two of Eve’s people alive. What do you want done.”

“Hold them,” Damien says. His voice drops to a colder tone. “I will deal with them once Ivy is stable.”

Killan pauses. “Understood. And boss… you need medical attention. Your ribs are messed up.”

Damien looks at Ivy, her face soft in sleep. “Later.”

“Alright.”

Damien ends the call and leans back in the chair. The pain in his chest spreads to his shoulder and spine, sharp and hot. He tries to stretch but it makes it worse. He winces, biting down a groan.

Sleep pulls at him, but he resists. He will not sleep until she is fully awake again. His head drifts forward. Not sleep. Just stillness.

Time passes.

A soft sound brings him back. Ivy’s breathing has quickened. Her fingers twitch harder this time. Damien stands instantly.

Her eyes open again, wider now. She looks around the room, confused, scared, trying to understand. Damien touches her cheek gently.

“It is alright,” he says. “You are safe. You are with me.”

She gasps, breath stuttering. “Damien.”

Her voice is weak and raw. Hearing his name from her breaks something inside him. He runs a hand down her arm slowly.

“I am here. You are safe.”

She swallows hard, trying to calm herself. Her breathing shakes. She looks at her torn clothes, the IV, the room. She winces at the pain in her ribs.

“The doctor said you will be okay,” Damien says. “You just need rest. You scared the hell out of me.”

Her eyes fill again. She lifts her hand and touches his cheek lightly. Her fingers are cold but steady.

“You came,” she whispers.

“I would burn the city if I had to,” Damien says. He means it. He does not try to soften the truth. “No one touches you again.”

She nods weakly and closes her eyes. Her hand slips from his cheek but he catches it before it falls.

“I am right here,” he says again.

Minutes pass. Her breathing settles. She drifts back into sleep, her forehead less tense.

Damien brushes her hair again and stands. He steps into the hallway where his men wait.

“Double security,” he says. “No one enters. No one gets close.”

“Yes sir.”