Chapter 53
Carlo
“I need to speak with the doctor. Alone.”
I say that shit flat, no emotion, just enough edge in my voice that the nurse doesn’t argue. She nods like she understands and walks out of the room. I wait till the door clicks shut, then I drag my hand over my face, grip the back of my neck, and let the silence press down on me.
Blaze is asleep—or knocked out, whatever. Still as hell on that damn hospital bed, wires everywhere, his face pale like he’s about to disappear. I hate hospitals. Fucking hate this place. The smell, the beeping, the waiting… the fucking helplessness.
He didn’t say shit. Not one fucking word about the pain. Not last night. Not this morning. Not in the car ride when he sat there like a damn stone, jaw clenched, arms folded, refusing to look at me.
The door opens again and the doctor steps in. Same one from earlier, tall, mid-40s, glasses that keep sliding down his nose. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week.
“You said you needed to talk?” he asks, pulling out the file in his hand.
I nod. “I want you to go straight to the point . Don’t sugarcoat shit.”
He adjusts his glasses and sighs. “Alright. The patient has an internal infection in the leg. Old injury flared up worse than we expected. Tissue damage. His bones are already weakening—complications from delayed treatment.”
I feel my stomach twist. “What are you saying?”
“We can still save the leg,” he says, but the way his tone drops makes my chest tighten. “But we need to act fast. Surgery within the next twenty-four hours, or the infection could spread. Worst case…”
He hesitates. I raise an eyebrow.
“Worst case what?”
“We amputate.”
I stare at him, blinking. Like maybe I heard that wrong. Like maybe the universe is fucking with me today.
“No,” I say, stepping closer. “That’s not happening.”
“I’m telling you what the medical reality is, Mr. Davenport,” he replies calmly. “We’re prepping antibiotics and fluids now. But we can’t delay surgery. The infection’s sitting right near the old fracture. One wrong move, one more day of pressure on that leg, and we’re risking permanent loss.”
I clench my fists. My jaw’s so tight I feel it crack.
“And the surgery… how bad is it?”
“It’s intensive. We’ll need to clean out the infection, possibly graft tissue, maybe pin the bone. He’ll need weeks of rest. Physical therapy after. No pressure on that leg for a while.”
I nod slowly, eyes drifting back to Blaze. He still hasn’t moved. His hair’s a mess, one arm hanging limply off the side of the bed. I want to punch something. Break a wall.
“How long has it been this bad?” I ask.
The doctor shrugs. “Hard to tell. He’s clearly been masking it. The limp, the pressure build-up—it’s not something that happened overnight.”
I bite down on the inside of my cheek, swallowing the rage boiling in my gut. That fucking idiot. That stubborn, hardheaded, prideful asshole.
“Do what you need to do,” I mutter. “Just save his damn leg.”
“We’ll begin prep immediately. You’ll need to sign the consent forms if he’s still unconscious when it’s time.”
“I’ll sign whatever the fuck you put in front of me,” I growl.
The doctor gives me a nod and walks out.
I sit down slowly, drag a chair next to the bed and just… fucking sit there. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, check the screen—calls, messages, meetings. I swipe them away. Fuck all that. I open the group chat with my team and type.
Postpone everything. I’ll be unavailable until further notice. Handle all issues without me.
A reply comes almost instantly.
Understood. Want me to reroute all calls?
Yes. Don’t fucking bother me unless someone’s bleeding out.
I throw the phone back in my coat pocket and slump forward, elbows on my knees. My hands shake. I ball them into fists.
“I swear to fucking God, Blaze,” I mutter under my breath, “if you ever pull shit like this again…”
But I can’t even finish the sentence.
Because the truth is—I’m scared. Really fucking scared. This isn’t about pride or control or fixing shit. This is about him. Him being okay. Him not fucking falling apart right in front of me.
I look at him again. That small invisible scar on his brow. The one I trace sometimes with my thumb when he’s asleep. His chest rises and falls, slow and steady. For now.
I lean back and breathe in deep. My head’s pounding. My chest feels like it’s being cracked open.
How the fuck did we get here?
He was limping way more than usual for weeks. I saw it. I fucking saw it. And I let him lie to me. I let his fake-ass smile and stupid jokes distract me from the way he dragged that leg when he thought I wasn’t looking.
I should’ve made him go to the hospital days ago. I should’ve fucking forced him. But no. I didn’t wanna fight. Didn’t wanna push. Didn’t wanna be the overbearing asshole.
And now we’re here.
I run my hand over his again. His fingers twitch. Still asleep. But I squeeze his hand anyway.
“You better wake up before that surgery,” I say low. “Because if you don’t, I’m signing that shit and you’ll never forgive me for it. But I’ll do it. I swear I fucking will.”
Silence.
I exhale and close my eyes. Just sit there. Minutes tick by.
I hear nurses outside. Machines beeping. Wheels squeaking across tile.
The door creaks again. I don’t move. I don’t need to. From the corner of my eye, I see the doctor step back in. Clipboard in hand. His face still serious as hell, but there’s something steadier in his tone now.
“We’re prepping the OR,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Antibiotics are going in. His vitals are holding.”
I nod once. “He wake up yet?”
The doctor shakes his head. “No. He’s stable, but heavily sedated. Pain meds and exhaustion. His body’s been under constant stress, Sir. That leg’s not just infected—it’s been deteriorating for long. He’s lucky it didn’t give out completely.”
I stand again. Pacing this time. I don’t even realize I’m doing it until my steps echo off the tile.
“How long’s this surgery gonna take?”
“Could be three hours, maybe four. We won’t know the extent of the internal damage until we open him up. The fracture site is tricky, and depending on what we find, we might have to reconstruct part of the bone.”
“And if something goes wrong?”
He exhales. Doesn’t flinch.
“If something goes wrong, we have to prioritize saving his life. The infection is dangerous. If it’s spread further than expected, we’ll have to remove more tissue than we’d like. But we’ll do everything we can to save the leg.”
I rub the back of my neck, jaw clenching hard. “You better.”
His expression doesn’t change. “This isn’t a casual procedure, Mr. Davenport. There will be complications—pain, rehab, physical therapy. You need to be prepared. He needs to be prepared.”
I scoff. “He’s not even awake. What the fuck do you want me to do, prep him in his dreams?”
The doctor gives a slow nod and walks toward the door. “You’ll be contacted when we’re ready to take him in. I suggest you use the time to prepare yourself.”
He’s out before I can curse him.
I drop back in the chair, hating how much sense that bastard made.
I do need to prepare. Because when Blaze wakes up and realizes what’s happening, it’s not gonna be pretty. He’s gonna fight. Scream, maybe. Shut me out. But fuck it—I’ll take the hate. He can throw whatever he wants at me, just as long as he’s still breathing.
I glance down at our hands. His skin’s colder now. Still twitching every few minutes like his body’s trying to wake up, but it can’t quite make it. I hate seeing him like this. Not because he looks broken. But because I know he’ll hate looking like this. Vulnerable. Exposed. Weak.
But he’s not weak. Not even close. He’s stronger than most of the men I’ve ever met. Tougher too. Stupid as hell sometimes, but never weak.
And that’s what scares me the most—how hard he’s going to take this. If he wakes up and that leg doesn’t feel the same. If the recovery drags longer than he expects. If he can’t ride or run or dance like he used to… it’s gonna kill something inside him.
So I’ll be there. For every minute of it.
I’ll drive him to physio. I’ll fight with him when he refuses help. I’ll sit outside every damn appointment if that’s what it takes. Because I didn’t come this far just to let him fall apart now.
He’s Blaze
And he’s mine.
I lean forward again, forehead resting on his hand, voice dropping to a whisper.
“You’re gonna wake up, baby. And you’re gonna be pissed. But I need you to know something before you swing at me.”
I close my eyes.
“I’d do it again. Sign it. Choose for you. Even if you hate me. Even if it ends us. I’d still do it. Because I’d rather lose you angry and walk fine, if possible, get you back on track.
His fingers twitch again.
Maybe he heard me.
Maybe he didn’t.
But I meant every fucking word.