Chapter 9 Emergency Doctor
Vivienne's POV
I didn't know how long I sat there in that cold, dark warehouse. Time seemed to have stopped completely, or maybe I had just lost all sense of it. The silence was heavy, pressing down on everything around me. But then I woke up when I heard a faint sound, so quiet I almost thought I'd imagined it. It was barely audible, like someone trying to speak but couldn't quite get the words out. The sound was weak, desperate even.
Then I felt it, a hand touching me. The touch was so light, so hesitant, as if the person didn't have the strength for anything more. But what struck me most was how cold it was. The hand was so cold and frail that it sent a shiver running down my spine. It felt wrong, like touching something that shouldn't be that cold, something that was slipping away.
My eyes flew open in panic, and then I saw him lying there beside me. His eyes were on me, looking up at my face, but I could tell immediately that he was fighting hard to keep them open. His eyelids kept drooping, heavy and tired, like he was losing the battle to stay awake.
Each blink seemed to take more effort than the last.
I quickly adjusted how I was sitting, my body stiff from being in the same position for so long. I moved closer to him, being as gentle as I could, and carefully lifted his head. I placed it on my lap, cradling it softly. His skin felt like ice against my hands.
"Hey, your body is so cold. Do you need water?" I asked, my voice coming out shaky and uncertain. I didn't know what else to say or do. I felt helpless.
"I...I'm cold," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath.
Those simple words scared me more than anything else could have. They went straight through me like a blade of ice, cutting deep. My heart started pounding hard in my chest. I looked around the warehouse desperately, hoping against hope that someone would appear, that Lucien would finally come through those doors with help.
But there was nothing. No one. Lucien still hadn't come, and there was no sign of anyone else arriving. The warehouse remained empty and silent except for our breathing. I looked down at him again and saw that his long sleeve was completely soaked with blood. The fabric was dark and wet, clinging to his arm. The sight made my stomach turn.
That's when it really hit me, like a punch to the gut. Help wasn't coming. No one was going to burst through those doors to save us. We were completely alone in this abandoned place, and if I didn't do something right now, he might not make it. The responsibility fell entirely on my shoulders.
Which meant I had to do something to keep him alive. Anything at all. I couldn't just sit there and watch him fade away.
I carefully moved his head off my lap, making sure he was as comfortable as possible on the cold floor, and then I got to work immediately. I searched every corner of that warehouse, my movements frantic and desperate. I looked through dusty old boxes that hadn't been touched in years, checked rusty shelves that lined the walls, and dug through piles of abandoned equipment and supplies.
After what felt like forever, maybe an hour, maybe more, I couldn't really tell, I finally found something useful in the storage room at the back. It was a small room, darker than the rest of the warehouse, filled with forgotten items. There, hidden away behind some old equipment covered in cobwebs, I spotted a fishing line and some needles. They weren't medical supplies, not even close, but they were all I had.
I grabbed them with trembling hands and rushed back to him. I stared at the items in my hands, my mind racing. I had never used a needle like this in my entire life. I'd never stitched anything, let alone a person. The very idea terrified me. But I guess there's a first time for everything, and this was definitely not how I'd imagined my first time would be.
I knelt down beside him again, looking at the wound. The blood had slowed a bit, but it was still seeping out. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, trying to find some courage I didn't know I had.
At first, my hands wouldn't stop shaking.
They trembled so badly I could barely hold the needle. I was terrified of what I was about to do. My mind raced with all the ways this could go wrong, all the ways I could hurt him even more than he was already hurt. What if I made it worse? What if I caused an infection? What if I couldn't do it right and he bled out anyway?
But I had no choice. I had to try.
I threaded the fishing line through the needle with shaking fingers, and then I began. When the needle first pierced his skin, when I started to pull the fishing line through, the pain must have been terrible for him. I could feel him tense up beneath my hands, and could hear his sharp intake of breath.
I couldn't bring myself to look him in the eyes. I kept my gaze focused on the wound, on what my hands were doing, because I knew if I looked up and saw the pain in his face, I might not be able to continue.
He said so many things while I worked. His voice was strained and tight with pain, and most of what he said were insults. Harsh, angry words aimed right at me. He called me clumsy, incompetent, and told me I didn't know what I was doing. Some of the words were cruel, cutting deeper than I expected. Some of them stung, making my eyes burn with unshed tears.
But I didn't let myself care about that. I couldn't afford to. I pushed the hurt aside and focused on the task in front of me. The only thing that mattered right now was that he got better, that he survived this nightmare. His insults didn't matter. His anger didn't matter. Only his life mattered.
He grunted with each stitch, the sound coming from deep in his chest. He cursed under his breath, words I'd never heard him use before. His body tensed with every pull of the thread, every time the needle went through his skin. The pain must have been excruciating.
But despite all of it, despite the terrible pain he was in, he stayed still and let me work. He didn't pull away or try to stop me. Maybe he understood that this was his only chance. Maybe he trusted me, even just a little bit.
I kept going, my hands becoming steadier as I worked. Slowly, carefully, I stitched up the wound where he'd been shot, using that fishing line as carefully as I could, trying to remember anything I'd ever seen in movies or
read in books about how to do this properly.