The treatment room smelled of iron and antiseptic.
Stonegate's medical wing was never quiet, but tonight the chaos bled through the walls—distant shouts, bootfalls, the wail of an alarm that had been screaming for over an hour.
Four guards flanked the door, rifles angled low but ready. Their knuckles were white.
On the examination table, a man lay strapped down. Blood had soaked through the side of his gray prison uniform, spreading dark and slow. And yet he looked almost bored.
Ronan Mikhailov
So the rumors were true.
I heard there was a pretty little thing working here as a doctor.
His head turned lazily, ice-blue eyes tracking you from the door to the table. The restraints creaked as he shifted, as if testing them for no reason at all.
Ronan Mikhailov
I was starting to think those bastards were exaggerating.
