Chapter 2 - The Shadows in the Glass
The silence in the library stretched, heavy and suffocating, punctuated only by the distant hum of the city far below.
Lincoln Frost did not look away from the window. The glass reflected his silhouette—sharp, imposing, and yet shadowed by a profound exhaustion that seemed to drag at his very soul. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely more than a gravelly whisper.
"Four days," he said. "Maybe five. The hours blur when the night never ends."
Delia crossed the room, her soft-soled shoes making no sound against the thick Persian rug. She stopped a respectful distance away, observing him with the keen, diagnostic eye of a woman who had spent years in the high-stakes environment of emergency wards. "Four days without sleep is a medical emergency, Mr. Frost. Your cognitive functions are already deteriorating, even if you’re hiding it behind whiskey and a terrifying reputation. Your blood pressure must be through the roof, which only makes your wound bleed faster."
"I don't need a medical lecture, nurse."
"Then don't ask for my help," she countered, her voice steady and unimpressed. "If you want to kill yourself through sheer stubbornness, you can do it without me watching. But if you brought me here to keep you alive, then you will listen to me. Sit down."
For a moment, she thought he might snap. The stories she had heard of Lincoln Frost portrayed him as a monster—a man who broke lives with a single nod of his head. But as he turned to face her, the fire of his legendary temper seemed smothered by a crushing weight. He looked at the leather armchair behind him, then back at her, and with a slow, defeated sigh, he sank into the cushions.
"Why can't you sleep?" Delia asked, stepping closer to inspect his bandaged arm. The bleeding had stopped, but his pulse, visible at the column of his throat, was rapid and shallow.
"Because the moment I close my eyes, the wolves start tearing at the gates," he murmured, his gaze tracking her movements. "In my world, sleep is a luxury. A weakness. If I drop my guard, even for an hour, people die. People who depend on me. People who want to replace me."
"And so you choose to let your body destroy itself from the inside out instead?" She reached out, her fingers cool and gentle as she pressed them against his wrist to check his pulse.
Lincoln flinched slightly at the contact, his muscles tensing like steel cables under her touch. But he didn't pull away. His dark eyes locked onto hers, searching for something—fear, greed, betrayal. He found none of it. There was only the calm, clinical determination of a woman who cared about the patient, not the crown he wore.
"You're not afraid of me," he noted, his voice dropping an octave.
"I've seen worse things than you in the emergency room, Mr. Frost," she said softly, releasing his wrist. "I've seen death in a hundred different shapes. You're just a man. A tired, bleeding man."
"You're wrong," he whispered. "I'm the monster that keeps the other monsters in this city in their cages."
"Even monsters need to rest." Delia pulled up a small wooden chair and sat directly opposite him, leaving only a few feet of space between them. She folded her hands in her lap. "You asked me to sit beside you until morning. You said you'd pay any price. Well, my price is your cooperation. Close your eyes."
"I told you—"
"I will be right here," she interrupted, her tone leaving no room for argument. "I won't leave this room. I won't let anyone enter. Bruno is outside, and I am inside. If anyone tries to hurt you, I will make enough noise to wake the dead. You are safe for the next six hours, Lincoln. Let the world spin without you for a night."
The use of his first name seemed to startle him. He stared at her, his jaw working as he fought the instinct to remain vigilant. But the warmth of the room, the lingering thrum of the whiskey, and the steady, unyielding presence of the nurse before him began to take their toll.
Slowly, agonizingly, Lincoln Frost leaned his head back against the leather chair. His eyelids fluttered, heavy as lead.
"If you cross me, Delia..." he threatened weakly, though there was no heat behind it.
"I'm a nurse, not a assassin," she whispered back, her voice dropping into a rhythmic, soothing cadence. "Close your eyes. Breathe. Inhale for four seconds... hold it... exhale."
He followed her instructions, his breathing gradually slowing from a frantic rattle to a deep, measured pace. Within ten minutes, the tension in his shoulders finally dissolved. His head tilted slightly to the side, and his breathing became deep and even.
Lincoln Frost was asleep.
Delia sat in the dim light of the library, watching over the most feared man in Hadley. As the hours ticked by, she couldn't help but notice the sharp contrast between his reputation and his current state. Without the mask of cold authority, he looked younger, almost vulnerable. There were faint scars tracing his jawline and temples—physical markers of a violent life she could barely comprehend.
At around three in the morning, she heard a faint rustle near the heavy oak doors of the library.
Delia's muscles tensed. She rose quietly from her chair, stepping around Lincoln’s sleeping form, and walked toward the entrance. Through the narrow gap in the double doors, she saw a shadow shifting in the hallway.
It wasn't Bruno.
It was Garrett Mallory. The young, clean-cut associate she had met earlier. He was standing near the door, his phone held close to his face, the blue light illuminating a cold, calculating expression. He was whispering into the receiver, his eyes constantly darting toward the library doors.
"He's out," Garrett whispered, his voice barely audible. "The nurse did something. He's asleep. No, I don't know what she gave him... Yes, this is the perfect window. Tell the syndicate to prepare. If Frost is out of commission for forty-eight hours, we can seize the docks before he even knows what happened."
Delia’s heart hammered against her ribs.
A betrayal. She had suspected it the moment she saw Garrett’s false smile, but hearing it confirmed made her blood run cold. She took a step back, careful not to make a sound, but her foot brushed against a decorative brass stand.
Clink.
The sound was tiny, but in the dead silence of the penthouse, it sounded like a gunshot.
May you like
In the hallway, Garrett’s whispering abruptly stopped. Delia held her breath, pressing her back against the wall, her hand gripping her mother’s medical bag like a shield.
Footsteps approached the door.
