Chapter 5

May’s POV

The sound of a child’s soft, hiccupy sobs stirred me from what felt like the deepest sleep I’d ever known. For a second, I didn’t know where I was. My head was heavy, my mouth dry, and then—pain.

A sharp, burning ache radiated from my shoulder and spread like wildfire through the rest of my body. I winced, every inch of me aching, and let out a quiet gasp. My fingers instinctively reached for the pain, brushing against the bandage that covered the wound. That was when the antiseptic smell hit me—pungent, cold, clinical.

My eyes fluttered open, and I blinked against the harsh white lights. The ceiling was too white. Too still. And then it hit me—hospital. That smell, the silence, the low beeping in the background, the faint sounds of footsteps echoing in tiled hallways… I hated hospitals.

A wave of nausea rolled through me.

Maybe it was the medication, or maybe it was the memories. I remembered getting lost in a hospital as a little girl—wandering down hallways for what felt like hours, terrified and invisible. That fear never quite left me. Now here I was, back in one, injured, groggy, and surrounded by strangers.

Why was I here?

What had happened after the shooting?

And… whose crying child was here?

I turned my head slowly, careful not to jolt the pain in my shoulder. That’s when I saw him.

A little boy.

He sat beside my bed in a tiny chair, curled up like he’d been waiting for hours. His suit-like school uniform was slightly crumpled, and his eyes—those gorgeous, watery blue eyes—were fixed on me with such intensity, it made my breath catch.

He looked… ethereal. Light-skinned with a perfectly shaped face, as if carved from porcelain. His curly dark-blonde hair framed his round cheeks, and there was something heartbreakingly beautiful about him.

My gaze dropped to the nametag pinned neatly to his chest.

“Saint Bells,” I whispered aloud, my voice raspy and soft.

What a name. Regal and gentle all at once. It suited him.

What a gorgeous name for such a striking little boy.

At the sound of his name, the boy’s head lifted in a jolt. His eyes widened with recognition and relief. Then, without warning, he let out a choked sob and threw his tiny arms around me.

I gasped at the movement, but I didn’t stop him. His small arms wrapped tightly around my waist, careful not to press against my wound. He clung to me like I was something precious—something he thought he’d lost.

Then he pulled away just slightly, reached into his little bag, and pulled out a notepad.

He scribbled quickly, his small hand trembling. Then he showed it to me:

“Thanks Auntie for saving my life and for coming back.”

Tears streamed down his cheeks as he showed me the message, and then he broke down again—louder this time, crying into my lap.

My heart cracked in half. Confusion flooded me, but instinct took over. I stroked his soft curls, rubbing his back slowly, gently.

“It’s okay… It’s okay, sweetheart…” I murmured, though I had no idea what was happening.

Who was this boy?

Why was he calling me Auntie?

And then—clarity struck like lightning.

The boy. The hostage. The moment before the gun went off.

It was him.

I froze.

Oh my God… it was him.

This was the child I’d risked my life to save.

His little face had been burned into my memory in the seconds before I screamed and threw the stone. My eyes swept over him now, worried. I needed to know he was okay.

“Hey Saint,” I said softly, pulling back just enough to see his face, “I hope you’re alright, baby. You’re not hurt, are you? I hope I didn’t injure you when I pushed you. Did I?”

His tear-filled eyes blinked up at me, and he nodded.

I panicked.

I thought he meant yes, he was hurt.

“Oh my God,” I whispered in a rush. My good hand reached for the nurse call button near the bed, and I jabbed it like my life depended on it.

Within moments, two nurses entered the room, both looking alert.

“It’s good to know you’re awake, ma’am,” one of them said kindly, but with clinical efficiency. “Please try not to move too much. Your wound is still fresh, and excessive movement could reopen the stitches.”

“I hear you,” I replied, nodding weakly. “But why hasn’t anyone checked on this child? He was with me when the incident happened—he could be hurt!”

The nurse shared a glance with the other one, then sighed. “He… refused to undress for examination. He wouldn’t let anyone near him long enough to check.”

My heart melted into a puddle right then.

As if I wasn’t already falling for this sweet, courageous boy—now he was refusing care just because he was so worried about me?

I turned to him again, my voice gentle but firm.

“Saint, Auntie is totally fine now, okay? You’re safe. But if you’re hurt, you must let them check. Auntie would be so, so sad if you ignored your wounds.”

He looked down again, scribbled something on his notepad, and held it up:

“I already checked. I’m perfectly okay, Auntie.”

I let out a soft laugh through the ache in my chest.

We were still bickering about it when the door to the room swung open. A gust of cool air followed the entrance of a man in a white coat—clearly the doctor—flanked by two nurses… and another man.

My heart stopped.

No, dropped.

Because the moment my eyes met the man in the tailored navy suit, my brain short-circuited.

He was… beyond handsome.

No, he was divine.

A six-foot vision of everything I’d never known I needed. His wheat-gold skin looked like it had been kissed by the sun. His hair—jet-black and silky—was pushed back neatly. He had the sharpest, most glass-cut jaw I’d ever seen, cheekbones that could rival any sculpture, and those piercing blue eyes that practically glowed. His mere presence shifted the atmosphere of the room.

He didn’t look real.

One of the nurses tried to adjust my position. “Ma’am, you shouldn’t be sitting upright. It’s too early. Let me help you back down.”

Before she could reach me, Saint jumped between us.

The entire room froze.

The little boy gently took my arm and helped me lie back down himself—tender, protective, like he’d been trained for this. My heart could barely take it.

The doctor recovered first, walking to my bedside and checking my vitals, tapping a few notes into his tablet. He began a series of light neurological checks, had me squeeze his fingers, follow his gaze, respond to commands.

Minutes passed.

Then, finally, he smiled.

“She’s stable,” he announced. “No internal injuries. The bullet missed all major organs. As long as the wound heals without infection, she’ll be fine.”

I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. Relief flooded through me.

I didn’t regret saving Saint—never would—but I couldn’t afford to lose any part of myself, not now. I still had to survive. I still had to work.

The doctor and nurses exited the room, leaving just me, Saint… and him.

The suited man suddenly turned to the little boy, his voice sharp with reprimand.

“Saint! How many times have I told you never to leave your nanny’s sight? Do you understand how dangerous—”

“Excuse me?” I cut in sharply, glaring at him.

My voice cracked with disbelief.

“Who the hell do you think you are to scold a child like that?”