The private VIP wing of St. Jude's Hospital was a sterilized vacuum of white walls, beige linoleum, and deafening silence.
Outside the glass partition of ICU Room 1, Damien Sinclair refused to sit down.
He had been pacing the length of the corridor for over an hour. His bespoke suit trousers and white dress shirt were stiff with dried mud and river water, his silver hair a chaotic, tangled mess.
Through the glass, Aria lay on the hospital bed. She was buried under a mountain of thermal blankets, an IV line taped to her pale hand, a nasal cannula delivering steady oxygen. She looked painfully small, but her chest was rising and falling in a steady, unbroken rhythm.
Damien stared at her through the glass, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle feathered in his cheek.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her falling. He saw the black van, the open door, the blindfold.
'The Vipers.'
