Chapter 13

Beckett

As my car screeched to a halt outside Montgomery Private Hospital, Marco and three of my best men were already waiting at the entrance.

"Boss, we're ready to move in," Marco said, checking his weapon. "The building is secured, but we should—"

"No." I cut him off, my voice deadly calm despite the rage burning in my veins. "I handle this alone. I don't want to expose our full operation here."

"Sir, if something goes wrong—"

"Nothing will go wrong." I straightened my jacket, concealing the controlled fury beneath a mask of cold professionalism. "Guard this floor. No one—and I mean no one—enters that surgical wing without my express permission. Not Calloway, not hospital administration, not God himself."

Marco nodded grimly. "Understood, boss."

I strode through the hospital corridors, my footsteps echoing with deadly purpose. Blood roared in my ears as I charged toward the fifth floor. East wing, room 502—the words echoed in my mind as I took the steps three at a time.

I rounded the corner, nearly colliding with a nurse pushing a medication cart. Her startled expression barely registered as I scanned the room numbers: 504, 503, 502.

The red light above the door glowed ominously. Surgery in progress. Unauthorized entry forbidden. I didn't give a damn.

I slammed my palm against the door. Locked. Of course. I clenched my fists so hard my knuckles turned white, then slammed my fist into it with a bang that echoed down the sterile corridor.

The door flew open, and I stumbled into blinding light, my eyes bloodshot, feeling utterly out of control for the first time in a decade.

What I saw turned my blood to ice.

Rosalind. On the operating table. Blood—so much blood—her face pale as death, tubes snaking from her arms, a mask over her face. She looked small, broken, like a torn ragdoll discarded by a careless child.

And there, sitting in her wheelchair beside the table like some twisted spectator at her own personal colosseum, was Hannah Blackwell.

My gaze went dull immediately, a shot of fear piercing through me unlike anything I'd ever experienced.

"What the hell—!" A surgeon looked up, his mask spattered with blood—her blood. "Security! We have a breach!"

I barely heard him. My entire world had narrowed to Rosalind's still form, to the monitors beeping too rapidly, to the pool of crimson staining the pristine sheets.

"What happened to her?" My voice came out as a rasp, barely human.

Hannah's voice cut through the chaos, saccharine and defensive. "Oh! You must be Rosalind's friend? Don't worry, she volunteered for this! She wanted to save me, you see. She loves me so much, she insisted on the donation. Isn't she wonderful?"

Something inside me snapped. I turned to face Hannah, and she must have seen something in my eyes because her smug smile faltered instantly.

"Volunteered?" I repeated, my voice dropping to a whisper that made the entire room go silent. "She volunteered to be drugged and strapped to an operating table?"

"I... she..." Hannah's confident facade crumbled as I took a step toward her.

"You pathetic little parasite." Each word was enunciated with cold precision.

"You don't understand!" Hannah's voice rose to a panicked shriek. "She has everything! The engagement, the family love, the perfect life! Why should she get to keep it all when I—"

My hand moved faster than anyone in the room could react. The slap echoed through the surgical suite like a gunshot, sending Hannah's head snapping to the side.

I grabbed the handles of her wheelchair and began pushing her toward the door, my voice never rising above that deadly whisper. "You want to know what's going to happen to you? You're going to disappear."

I shoved her wheelchair through the doorway with enough force to send her careening down the hallway. Her sobs echoed behind me as I turned back to the operating room.

"Sir, you need to leave immediately!" A nurse stepped toward me, but I brushed past her like she was nothing.

"I asked what happened to her!" I roared, grabbing the surgeon's gown, my vision blurring with rage.

Then a familiar voice cut through the chaos.

"Beckett!"

I turned, my grip still white-knuckled on the surgeon's clothes. Atticus stared back at me, shock written across his features. He recovered quickly, moving toward me with the calm purpose I'd always respected in him.

"Beckett, you need to step out. Now." His voice was low, urgent. "This is a sterile environment, and every second you're in here puts her at risk."

"What the fuck happened?" I demanded again, not releasing the surgeon. "Tell me."

Atticus's gaze traveled between me and Rosalind, understanding dawning in his eyes. "My God," he breathed. "That look in your eyes... She must be your wife, the one you told me about."