Chapter 1 I took an oath. All things considered, it was pretty freaking simple. Do no harm. That's straightforward, right? Three easy words. Damn near impossible to screw it up. Unless, like me, you've got a hot temper and a mouth just reckless enough to write a lot of very big checks that you will never be able to cash. That's why I'm speed-walking through the broad halls of St. Raphael's Hospital, trying to avoid all of those pesky thoughts that are directly antithetical to the oath I took. "Do no harm," as it turns out, is kinda limiting. "Do no harm" means I am probably prohibited from smashing a certain someone's head into one of the stone gargoyles perched above the hospital entrance. "Do no harm" suggests I should not oopsie-daisy accidentally run headlong into another certain someone with my scalpel aimed at one of their major arteries. But does "do no harm" really imply I can't garnish hospital director Jeremy Fleming's lunchtime soup with a few crushed peanuts? I mean, yes, the man does have a deathly tree nut allergy... but if I say I'm doing it for flavor, am I really in violation? And if I "forget" where his EpiPen is, is that really such a crime? As for his comrade in hate, Shana Reed, I don't know that she's allergic to anything, except maybe compassion. Maybe that's how I can get to her. Kill 'em with kindness, isn't that what they say? As long as she does in fact die, I'm fine with whatever means it takes to justify the ends. That sounds harsh. I know that. I get it. But harsh is exactly what Jeremy and Shana deserve. After all, they're the ones playing God-and with the lives of children, no less. They think hospital budgets are a numbers game. They're not, though. Hospital budgets are a game of life and death. And in this game, the only players who can lose are the ones whose lives have barely begun. Bald-headed boys with leukemia, swollen-eyed girls with rhabdomyosarcoma, the too-skinny preteens with ostomy bags and a gray pallor in their malnourished skin-that's who loses. Do Jeremy and Shana care? No. No, they do not. Those two soulless ghouls would sooner kick the crutch out from under an eight-year-old amputee than replace all the faulty equipment that I'm forced to work with on a daily basis. Hell is too good a place for the likes of them. So yeah, I may be contemplating violating my Hippocratic oath-but surely there are some people who are exempt from that oath. Surely, there are men and women who ought to choke on their own venom. Surely, some people deserve harm. "... Dr. Fairfax?" I double-take towards the pale woman peeking out at me from the door of one of the hospital's private rooms. Only then do I realize that she's been saying my name for a while. I was too lost in medieval torture scenarios starring Jeremy and Shana to realize it. I blink my way back to reality. "Mrs. Moore! Hi, sorry. Is everything okay with Harper?" She shrugs, neither a yes nor a no. "A resident came by to check on her a few minutes ago. He said that her airways are still pretty swollen and that we should spend another two nights here at least." I bite my tongue, if only so the pain keeps me from narrowing my eyes in irritation. "This was Dr. ... Statton?" "Yes, I think so." Mrs. Moore picks at her lip. A nervous habit she's developed during long nights at her daughter's bedside. They're chapped and bleeding, the poor things, and her blue eyes have lost too much of their brightness. "I, err... I mentioned that you were our doctor, but he said that, in his professional opinion, taking Harper home would only worsen her case." I sigh. Patience is in short supply these days, but patients? There are always far, far too many of those. Taking Mrs. Moore by the shoulder, I shepherd her back into the room. Her daughter Harper is spread out across the bed. She's nine, almost ten, but recurring pneumonia has robbed her of her growth, so that now, she wouldn't be out of place in a kindergarten classroom. Her cheeks are too sunken, her closed eyelids too prominent. The auburn hair fanned across her pillow is limp, lank, and brittle. "Harper's situation is under control, Mrs. Moore," I assure her. "I've been monitoring her religiously since the moment you came into my care. She's been nebulized several times and her airways have gone back to normal. But I'm happy to check again for you." The mother exhales, casting downtrodden glances in the direction of her daughter. "No, no... I was just worried when he said... I mean, he didn't even know her name. He kept calling her Hadley." Of course he did. Because Taylor Statton isn't really a doctor; he's a stooge. A selfish, preening, power-hungry social climber whose overly gelled head is stuck so far up Jeremy's rectum that it's a wonder he's not the one who needs nebulizer treatments himself. I can't say any of that out loud, though. I don't give a rat's ass about protecting Statton's reputation-I just don't want to heap a single ounce more worry on this woman and her daughter. They've already suffered far more than anyone should have to. "Dr. Statton-" ... is a pompous twat who knows that, for every extra night in this hospital, many undeserving pockets are being lined, including his. "-doesn't know Harper like I do. I will sign off on her discharge papers tonight and you're free to take her home." "And if she has trouble breathing again⁠-" "Call me anytime," I insist, gripping her arm. "I will come by your house myself if that's what it takes to make sure your baby girl is safe." Mrs. Moore's face splits into a broad smile, the first one I've seen from her in days. "Thank you, Dr. Fairfax. You're an angel." "No need to-" I break off at the sudden ruckus of raised voices coming from down the hall. Sounds like a scuffle at the nurse's station, if I'm not mistaken. Not the first time that's happened, nor will it be the last. Anxious parents and overtired, overworked RNs do not mix. "-thank me. Excuse me, please." Mrs. Moore is looking in the direction of the ruckus, her eyes falling back into their resting state of lip-tearing worry. I bow out of the room and start striding down the hallway, cracking my knuckles as I go. Which one of Jeremy's goons do I have to deal with today? Whoever it is, I hope they're ready for me. Given the adrenaline pumping through my veins thanks to that dipshit, Statton, and his manipulative catastrophizing, I'm more than ready for a fight. But when I round the corner and see the size of the man towering over one of the nurses, the fight in me shrivels up and runs for cover for two reasons. One: This is no muscle-bound moron on Jeremy's secret payroll. The unconscious child he's carrying in his arms is proof enough of that. Two: This man can snap me in half with just his pinkie finger. He's huge, dressed in a dark navy suit jacket that must've required acres of Italian silk to sew. The dark hair is just long enough to start to curl at the back of his neck. With the way his head is turned, I can only see a sliver of his jaw, but that sliver is viciously sharp and stubbled with the beginnings of a beard, and what little of his mouth is visible is hemmed into a savage frown. Beyond all that, though, is the way the air and the people in the room seem to shift around him. Every eye is locked on him, jaws slung halfway to the floor, stuck somewhere between awestruck and terrified. There's a palpable sense of violence rippling off of him like smoke from a fire. So, yeah, "snap me in half" seems well within this man's wheelhouse. But right now, it seems like Sonya's the one who's in danger of being snapped in half. She's one of my better nurses, competent and quiet, never one to cause trouble. But at the moment, she's found herself face-to-face with capital-T Trouble. To her credit, Sonya is standing directly in the monstrous man's path, despite being a good two heads shorter than he is. She's employing the soothing, placating voice that's drilled into students during nursing school. "Sir, I understand your situation, but I'm afraid you can't stay with⁠-" "I'm not leaving his side, do you understand?" The man's voice is a snarl with thorns. "The boy needs to be seen, right fucking now." Sonya flinches back. It's not often you hear that kind of language in St. Raphael's. Especially not towards someone as sweet and patient as Sonya. I start walking a little faster. "I need a damn doctor," he continues. "So unless you can find me one, I'd suggest you get the hell out of my way." "Sir, I want to help you⁠-" "Then why the hell are you still standing here? Go get someone." Sonya's bottom lip starts to quiver. The two other nurses flanking her have moved out of the line of fire. My instincts are screaming at me to do the same. This is not a man you want to mess with. But as any good doctor would, I block out the white noise and focus on the child in his arms. A boy, pale, Caucasian, too skinny. Probably around seven or eight years old. His lips are swollen. His eyes are puffy. He's barely breathing. Anaphylaxis, almost certainly allergenic in nature. The textbook of my mind cracks open and words start to float to the forefront of my brain. As we speak, IgE antibodies bound to mast cells are triggering degranulation. It's histamine rush hour in the boy's veins, every single one of them cranking wide open to accommodate the traffic jam. Every second drags his blood pressure lower and lower, a downward spiral that will end in cardiac arrest if I don't⁠- "Let me take a look at him," I blurt just as Sonya starts tripping over her next response. Her gaze falls on me gratefully, cheeks flushing pink as she retreats behind the nurse's desk for safe harbor. The man twists around. My first and extremely juvenile thought is, My God, he's gorgeous. I'm not proud of that one. Not in the least. I'm a doctor and this is an emergency situation. I have a child in anaphylaxis on my hands and I'm ogling his father? My only defense-and I'm aware it's a pathetic one, but it's the only one I've got-is that I've been having a rather extended dry spell lately. It's been a hot minute since I had anything remotely hot going on in my life. At this point, I'll settle for reheated and lukewarm. That's the only reason I can account for to explain why I'm so affected by the green eyes that bore down on me as though they have the power to turn me to stone. It's not the green eyes alone, though. It's the whole dark, gritty, muscular package. The front is even more intimidating than the view from the back. The man's blunted jaw squares, his eyes narrowing mistrustfully as he scans me up and down like he can see right through me. Given the distinctly unappealing, shoulda-been-thrown-out-four-years-ago sports bra I'm wearing, I sincerely hope not. "Who are you?" He doesn't wait for me to answer before he asks, "You're a doctor?" "That's what my medical degree says," I answer coolly. "Your son is in anaphylaxis. I need to⁠-" Before I can tell him what I need, the piercing scream of a new and unexpected noise turns everything on its head. My arms break out in crops of goosebumps, my stomach flips itself inside out, and sweat breaks out in a cold sheen across my forehead. It's impossible, has to be impossible, but I could have sworn the noise I just heard sounded like⁠- "Is that a gunshot?" Sonya gasps from where she's cowered behind the nurse's station. "No," I tell her calmly. "It can't⁠-" Then it happens again. The same sound, except exponentially louder. Loud enough that there's no mistaking what it is. Or where it is: coming closer to us. "GET DOWN!" I cry out, as chaos is unleashed on the pediatric ward.