Chapter 8 - Nursing the Devil
"Get upstairs!" Roman roared, shoving me behind his broad back as he drew two pistols from his shoulder holsters in one fluid, terrifying movement. "Viktor! Get Clara and Lily to the panic room!"
The glass windows of the sunroom shattered inward with a deafening CRASH.
Heavy automatic gunfire rained into the hallway, tearing through the fine artwork, plaster, and marble pillars.
I screamed, dropping to my hands and knees, scrambling back toward the sunroom where Lily was crying out in terror. I grabbed Lily, pulling her under a heavy mahogany table, covering her body with mine as bullets whistled over our heads.
Roman was a force of nature.
He moved through the smoke and flying marble like a dark phantom, his guns barking with lethal precision. Every shot he fired found a target. Three hitmen in dark tactical gear dropped into the hallway before they could even clear the broken window frame.
"Clara! Move!" Viktor screamed, rushing into the sunroom with a tactical shotgun in his hands. He grabbed me by my arm, pulling both Lily and me out from under the table.
We ran down the rear service corridor toward Roman’s private quarters.
Behind us, the sound of heavy gunfire, shouting, and exploding glass echoed through the grand house. Roman was holding the main hallway by himself, keeping the attackers from reaching the residential wing.
We reached Roman’s private suite. Viktor pressed his hand against a biometric scanner hidden behind a painting on the wall.
A heavy steel door slid open, revealing a hidden panic room stocked with monitors, emergency medical supplies, and communication gear.
"Inside! Now!" Viktor barked.
I shoved Lily inside the safe room, but before I could step in myself, I turned back to look down the dark hallway.
Roman was stumbling toward us.
His dark blue suit jacket was shredded, covered in drywall dust and dark, wet blood. His left arm was hanging limply at his side, and he was clutching his right ribs with his hand, blood seeping through his fingers.
"Roman!" I gasped, running down the hall toward him, ignoring Viktor’s warning shouts.
I caught Roman just as his knees gave out. His massive weight slammed into me, but I held onto him with everything I had, dragging him through the door into the panic room just as Viktor slammed the heavy steel door shut and locked it from the inside.
CLANG.
The panic room sealed shut, cutting off the noise from the outside world.
Roman collapsed against the padded wall, sliding down to the floor, his breathing heavy, shallow, and wet.
"Roman! Oh God, Roman!" I panicked, dropping to my knees beside him.
His shirt was soaked in dark, crimson blood. A bullet had tore through his left shoulder, and another had grazed his ribs, leaving a deep, jagged gouge that was pouring blood across his lap.
"I'm... fine..." Roman rasped, a weak grin touching his pale lips despite the blinding pain. "Just... a scratch..."
"Shut up!" I yelled, tears streaming down my face. "You're bleeding to death!"
I looked around the panic room, spotting a surgical supply kit on the stainless steel counter. I grabbed gauze, antiseptic, and medical shears, dropping back down to his side.
"Lily, stay over there, sweetie," I called out over my shoulder. "Don't look."
Lily sat in the corner, holding her teddy bear tightly, nodding bravely with wide eyes.
I tore open Roman’s white shirt, exposing his broad, muscular chest. The shoulder wound was deep, the bullet lodged inside near his collarbone.
"You have to take the bullet out," Roman whispered, his gray eyes looking up at me, hazy with pain. "There's a local anesthetic in the kit... syringe..."
"I'm not a doctor, Roman! I'm a cleaner!" I sobbed, my hands trembling as I held the bottle of antiseptic.
"You saved my life once, Clara," Roman murmured, reaching up with his good hand, pressing his bloody fingers against my jaw, forcing me to look him in the eye. "Do it again."
I wiped my tears, swallowed my fear, and grabbed the syringe.
For thirty excruciating minutes, I worked on him in the dim light of the panic room.
I numbed the area, pulled the lead bullet from his shoulder using surgical forceps, cleaned the ragged wounds, and stitched the flesh closed with tight, disciplined stitches—a skill my mother had taught me years ago when we couldn't afford emergency room visits.
Roman didn't scream once. He kept his eyes locked on my face the entire time, gripping the edge of the steel counter so hard his knuckles turned white.
When I tied off the final stitch, I fell back against the floor, exhausted, covered in his blood, my chest heaving.
Roman lay back against the wall, his breathing steadying as the medicine took effect. He looked down at the neat row of black stitches across his shoulder, then up at me.
"You really are something, Clara Mercer," Roman murmured softly.
I looked at him, wiping a sweat-soaked strand of hair from my forehead. "Why did you fight so hard, Roman? You could have retreated to this room first."
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Roman reached out, grabbing my hand, pulling me closer until I was sitting right beside him against the wall.
"Because they were coming for you," Roman said, his voice dropping into a soft, fierce whisper. "And as long as I have breath in my body, nobody touches what's mine."
