33

Since the police found and released me, my sole focus was to find Bloom. I'd convinced them to let me tag along because I knew the hospital and could show them every turn and how to avoid the bad guys. They'd reluctantly agreed if I stayed out of the way.

As we made our way along the corridors, we passed several men, discarded like a rag doll. And each time, I swayed like I would pass out. Until the cops rolled them over and confirmed that not only were they dead but also that none was Bloom.

"What the hell happened?" one of the cops mused aloud. "They're all dead."

My tongue was too heavy to mention Bloom. They didn't need to know he was responsible. If anyone knew he'd killed so many men, wouldn't he come under scrutiny? Which would be even worse because he didn't have any record of his birth. He had nothing to prove he was an American citizen.

Some of the men died from bullet wounds. One had their neck slit. Another had been found with his head in the doorway, his skull split open. Whatever was needed to get the job done, Bloom had done it.

The gruesome sight should have been a red flag about the kind of guy I'd become involved with, but I didn't care. As long as he was alive.

We finally arrived on the first floor to an explosion of bullets. The cops rushed to stand on either side of the doorway. They signaled to each other, and on the count of three, one burst into the room, crouching. Another covered him, gun at the ready.

"I see one!"

The cop fired as a cry rose, "Nooo! He's not the bad guy!"

Wait… what? I tried to burst into the room, but one of the cops pulled me back. My chest rose and fell. "What happened? Who did you shoot?"

"You shot the wrong man." The voice was familiar, but I couldn't place who it belonged to.

Wild horses couldn't drag me away. I forced my way in, ignoring their shouts that I couldn't interfere with their investigation. A gruesome sight greeted me: three men covered in blood lying on the floor and one masked man kneeling in the center of the room, blood pouring from a bullet wound to the chest. Like the others, he was dressed in black, but something was different about him.

Oh god, no.

Dr. McAdams—the voice I'd recognized—eased him to lie on the floor and removed the mask. Bloom's ashen face twisted in pain. A nurse cut open Bloom's shirt. My heart plummeted at the blood seeping profusely from the hole where the bullet had penetrated. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and his hand twitched.

You're one of the best goddamn trauma surgeons in this country.

My brain screamed at me to go to Bloom, to shove everyone aside and take over, but I was paralyzed. My hands, coated in cold perspiration, clenched into fists at my sides. An icy panic spread through my veins, causing the edges of my vision to blur.

"Stay back," Dr. McAdams snapped when a cop approached. His eyes were ablaze with urgency, his hand expertly pressing on the wound while he gave orders my brain couldn't comprehend.

Bloom opened his eyes, and they found mine. He stared back at me with an intensity that snapped me out of my stupor. I had to save him.

I moved swiftly to Bloom's side, professional instincts finally kicking in. I had a dying man who needed my attention. I barked orders of what I needed stat, but the others had already acted while I was still in shock. In little time, a nurse wheeled a gurney in to transport Bloom to the OR.

Fuck. This was not how I wanted to return to the OR. Bloom tried to clutch my hand, but I placed it gently at his side. "Don't move. You're going to be all right. I won't let you die."

Dr. McAdams hovered close by, his face set in grim lines as I checked Bloom's vitals. "You shouldn't be doing this, Dr. Collier. Let one of us handle it. You're too close to him."

His words stung, but I couldn't afford the luxury of a reaction. "Back off, McAdams. You don't tell me how and when to do my job." My voice was sharper than I'd intended, but I was allowed to be on edge.

As we transferred Bloom to the OR, his body writhed weakly, his face contorting in pain. The wheels of the gurney clattered as we rushed him along the hall. Each step was a calculated effort to keep my hands steady, to keep my mind focused on the clinical details and not on the fact that it was Bloom lying there, bleeding out, his pained groans piercing my heart.

Why weren't we there yet?

The hallway seemed longer than I remembered, and the elevator was excruciatingly slow. Every ticking second felt like an eternity under the harsh fluorescent lights. My heart pounded against my ribcage with such force I thought it might burst out.

"I don't regret it." He gasped. "Logan, I don't regret it."

"Shh. Save your energy."

We had a long day ahead of us. Thankfully, I wasn't the only one able to snap into professional mode. When we reached the surgical ward, a full team stood ready to take my orders. We avoided the room where all this started and rushed him into room three.

As we pushed inside, Bloom's breathing became labored, his eyes fluttering. His skin turned clammy and even paler, his lips blue.

"He's going into shock," Dr. McAdams cried.

"We need an IV on him now."

A nurse stepped forward, her movements swift and efficient as she worked to insert the IV, threading a catheter into a vein in Bloom's arm. The adrenaline in the air of the room was palpable. Around us, machines beeped and whirred, their noises merging into an urgent symphony.

"Logan," Bloom wheezed out my name again, opening his eyes, which flickered with fear. He was scared. He'd said he wasn't afraid to die, but he'd been lying.

"I won't leave you. You'll be fine. I'll make sure of it."

A nurse placed an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose, and his eyelids fluttered closed again. A resounding silence descended as we watched the heart monitor for any signs of change.

Nothing else mattered except keeping Bloom alive.

I scrubbed in quickly, pulled on gloves and a mask, and stepped to the operating table.

"Dr. Collier, I must insist you let me do this."

"If you want to repay him for saving your lives, you'll work to ensure he doesn't die."

Just as I would.

Nods all around but no words were exchanged. There didn't need to be. We all knew what was at stake.

Every fiber of my being was focused on Bloom's body lying prone on the table before me. The sight of his chest with its deadly wound was daunting but also grounding. This wasn't why I'd become a surgeon. To watch the man I cared about hang on by a thread. This was supposed to happen to other people—strangers—not to those I held dear.

Navigating through this minefield of emotions, I had to remember the golden rule—focus. One misstep could be fatal. And I refused to let him down.

Our team went to work with focused efficiency. The hum of machinery and my quiet directives became the only sound necessary. Each step I made was methodical, honed by years of experience, each surgical cut precise as I sliced open Bloom's body to remove the bullet that had almost pierced his pulsing heart.

How ironic. It belonged to him, but he had no idea how beautiful his pumping heart was. But I could see it. Literally.

As we worked tirelessly, time became irrelevant, every second thwarting death that seemed to hover over my shoulder, whispering into my ear that my efforts were in vain. Sweat trickled down my forehead, stinging my eyes, but I never faltered. Despite McAdams's cautionary glances in my direction, I remained at the helm.

I was the one bringing Bloom back to life. After all, it was because he had protected me that we were in this situation in the first place.

After what felt like an eternity, I found the bullet. It gleamed maliciously under the clinical lights as I extracted it. A collective sigh rose, but our job was far from over.

"Whaaat?" I shot up when hands shook me awake. I blinked several times to get the grittiness out of my eyes. Exhaustion weighed down my body. Where was I? My eyes landed on Bloom lying in a hospital bed, recuperating from his surgery.

That's right. He's in recovery.

"Dr. Collier."

James. James was the one who'd woken me up. I'd asked one of the nurses to wake me after an hour.

"How's he doing?" I stood and walked to Bloom.

"I just checked him. He's doing well, considering the blunt force of that bullet. Just an inch to the right and it would have hit his heart."

I gritted my teeth, checking Bloom's pulse despite James's assessment. I ignored his sigh. He didn't understand. I had to assure myself he was fine. I didn't trust anyone else with Bloom's care.

"See. I told you he was stable," James said when I finished.

I brushed Bloom's hair from his forehead. "It's not you."

"Don't worry. I'm not offended. I know you're worried about him. You've had a traumatic experience, though, and then handling Bloom's surgery must have taken a toll on you. Why don't you go home and rest? I'll keep an eye on him."

Except I didn't want anyone to keep an eye on him. I wanted to always have my eyes on him in case something went wrong. How could I trust James with such a huge task? Bloom wasn't a random patient. I couldn't afford for anything to go wrong.

"I can rest here."

"Come on, Dr. Collier. The hospital is finally back to normal, and everyone is singing Bloom's praises as a hero. Go home—"

"He's not a hero."

"What?"

"He didn't do it to save those people's lives, James. Bloom couldn't care less about those people. He did it to save me."

"It doesn't matter why he did it. He did, and many lives were saved because of it."

"At the expense of his life?" I snapped. I finally understood. If he died, it wouldn't be worth it. A hundred lives didn't compare to his.

"I understand you're upset—"

"Don't. I don't need platitudes, James. I just need him to be alright. Can you assure me he'll be alright? Because if not, then go away. I don't want to talk to anyone."

"Eventually, you'll have to talk to the press and the CEO and police. You can't stay with him all the time."

"Watch me."

He sighed. "All right, I'll go, but you're not the only one worried about him. Crowe's here, and he wants to see Bloom."

"No. He's in recovery. No one can see him yet."

"I know that, but you've already bypassed so many red tapes, so what's one more? I'll send him in."

"James—"

But he walked out of the room, and in came Bloom's guardian, face pale, lines of worry etched deeply into the corners of his eyes. The last time we'd spoken back at my house, Crowe had appeared larger than life, in control, and nearly indestructible. The man in front of me was reduced to trembling hands and wet eyes.

"Bloom," he whispered the boy's name and approached the bed. "Jesus Christ, kid." Tears spilled down his cheeks as he tentatively reached out a trembling hand and stroked Bloom's ashen cheek. There was a deep sorrow in his eyes, a crack in the tough biker president exterior he showed the world.

I inhaled deeply, blinking back my tears. I'd thought I'd shed enough right after his surgery, but my eyes leaked seeing the way Crowe cared for him. He kissed the boy's forehead.

"It's my fault. I should never have brought you here to Smoky Vale. You'd have been better in Riverton."

In other words, away from me. I closed my eyes, acknowledging the truth of his words. Bloom would have been better off having not met me.

"What's the damage?" he asked gruffly.

My throat constricted, and words couldn't pass my lips. I slowly shook my head.

"Is he going to make it?"

"The surgery went well."

"That's not what I asked you."

"We…we have to wait and see how he responds to the surgery and treatment. He's not out of the woods yet. He'll remain in a medically induced coma until he improves enough for us to wean him off the sedatives."

"Son of a bitch." Crowe clenched and released his fists. He stared at me, jaw set. He blamed me for what had happened. I did too.

"I begged him not to do it," I whispered, the words sounding pathetic even to my ears.

"Did you think he would listen to you? He's Bloom. He never lets new people in, but he did with you. The most dangerous thing we could have done for him was to teach him the biker way. He lives by our creed. Literally. He takes every oath to heart, and if he sees you as his, there's nothing he's not willing to risk for you."

"I know."

Only too late.

Bloom was who he was and would never change. And I couldn't change my history and the fact that I lived a precarious existence that, for all I knew, was already crumbling around me with the national coverage of what had happened at the hospital. I needed to check with my handler to see what damage the news had done, but I had to stall for as long as possible. If they wanted me to relocate… No, I couldn't leave Bloom like this.

"If you care about him, you'll not let him die."

Crowe's words lingered in my head long after he was gone, and I returned to my vigil by Bloom's bedside. The steady beep of the monitor was the only sound in the room. I watched him as if I could make him open his eyes by sheer force of will.

The door creaked open, and Nurse Hatchett entered, carrying a tray with medications. She didn't look at me as she did her task, each movement practiced, efficient.

"Dr. Collier."

"Yes?"

"A detective wants to speak to you."

"Can't it wait?"

"They've been waiting for a long time. I'm afraid it can't any longer."

I sighed. "Let them in."

Nurse Hatchett left, and a man came in. He introduced himself as Detective Marquez, and I shook his hand, bracing myself for what was coming. He asked me questions about what had happened, to which I responded curtly. They brought in a patient suffering from gunshot wounds, but I did a shit job of securing that patient, so his gang members infiltrated the hospital and put everybody's lives in jeopardy.

"We may reach out with further questions. Thank you for your time." He looked at Bloom, then back at me. "You know, I can't decide if he's a hero or a monster. I guess we'll only know when he wakes up."

As the detective walked out, shame settled inside me at what I'd said to James. The world might see Bloom as a monster, but he would never be that to me. He would always be the boy who bulldozed his way into my life and captured my heart.

And dammit, he was a hero. I would ensure no one forgot it.