"Phone," Nicholas repeated, his voice barely a gravelly rasp, though his blood-crusted fingers held her wrist with an unyielding, desperate firmness.

The van pulled into the subterranean garage of an unassuming concrete estate hidden in the wooded hills near Annapolis.

Surrounded by ten heavily armed guards, Nicholas was wheeled into a private medical suite built into the basement of the mansion. For the next five hours, Hannah worked tirelessly alongside a discreet private doctor who arrived under armed escort. She debrided the wound, sutured the damaged tissue, and monitored his vitals until the sun rose over the trees outside.

At 8:00 AM, the private doctor packed his bag and turned to Hannah.

"His fever is breaking," the doctor noted, impressed. "Excellent trauma management on the road. Without those early IV fluids, he would have suffered organ failure."

"He's not out of the woods yet," Hannah replied, washing her hands at the stainless steel sink. "He needs continuous monitoring for the next forty-eight hours."

She turned around to find Adrian standing in the doorway, holding a laptop and a steaming cup of coffee. He handed the coffee to her.

"Julian Vance just declared himself the new head of the Vale enterprise at a meeting in Harbor Point," Adrian informed them, his voice tight. "He told the board that Nicholas is dead."

"Then show them he's alive," Hannah said simply.

Adrian gave a grim laugh. "It’s not that simple. Vance has locked down the central servers. He controls the perimeter guards at the main estate. If Nicholas shows up weak and bedridden, Vance’s men will finish the job right on the boardroom floor."

Suddenly, a raspy voice cut through the sterile room.

"Then we don't go to the boardroom."

Hannah and Adrian turned toward the bed. Nicholas was sitting up, propped against the pillows. His face was still pale, dark circles beneath his eyes, but the feverish haze was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating intelligence that chilled the room.

"Nicholas," Adrian said, stepping forward. "You need rest."

"I've rested for three days in a basement, Adrian," Nicholas said, his gaze shifting away from his lieutenant and landing squarely on Hannah.

He stared at her—really looked at her—taking in her messy ponytail, her tired eyes, and her scrubs stained with his blood.

"Come here," Nicholas commanded softly.

Hannah hesitated, then stepped up to the side of his bed. "You should be lying down."

Nicholas reached out, his long fingers gently touching the silver medallion resting on his bedside table.

"You found this," Nicholas whispered.

"It was on the floor near the column," Hannah said. "It looked important to you."

Nicholas looked up, his dark eyes burning with an intense, unreadable emotion. "It was my mother’s. She died when I was twelve. The night she died in the hospital, she handed it to me and said six words."

Hannah froze. This is yours. Don't lose it.

"When you said those words in that dark basement," Nicholas murmured, his voice trembling slightly, "I thought I was dead. I thought she had come back for me."