Chapter 11
2206words
Sinclair Dominion Hospital | Surgical Suite
Late Evening
Maxim Thorne had never been a man who panicked. His world thrived on order, precision, and control. But as he stood near the hospital window, watching the storm continue its assault on the city skyline, his chest was tight with something unfamiliar—fear. Not for the company. Not for his reputation. But for her.
He hadn’t even known she’d been hurt until Lucian’s voice had cut through the line like a blade: “She’s been stabbed. I think it’s serious.”
Now he was still trying to make sense of it. How had this happened? Raven didn’t get hurt. Raven ended fights before they began. For nearly a decade, she’d moved on the edge of impossible—untouchable, unbreakable.
The answer, he feared, was as simple as it was devastating: Because for once, she wasn’t the weapon. She wasn’t the shadow. She cared.
Lucian sat outside the surgical suite, elbows on his knees, fists clenched together so tight his knuckles were white. His jacket was soaked. He hadn’t changed. He hadn’t even moved, except to run both hands through his damp hair again and again, as if scrubbing at the memory would undo it.
She was hurt. Because of him.
He kept replaying the moment in his head. The way she’d stepped in front of him, the way her voice hadn’t even trembled when she admitted who she was. The way she bled without saying a word. He could still feel the warmth of it soaking into his shirt.
A clean, efficient stab to the right shoulder. But deep. Dangerous.
She’d protected him—again. Without hesitation. Without complaint.
Even after all that… even knowing what she was…
Black Harrow.
He knew the name. Everyone in their world did. Ghost story. Assassin. Deniable asset. And somehow, that person—that myth—was the same woman who shielded him like it was instinct.
Lucian’s eyes were bloodshot, not from tears, but from the sheer force of restraint.
He didn’t look up when Harold Sinclair finally arrived, though he felt his presence the moment the man stepped into the corridor.
Harold placed a hand on his grandson’s shoulder. “Lucian.”
Lucian didn’t lift his gaze. “She was protecting me,” he muttered.
“What happened?”
“She was stabbed,” Lucian said. “I didn’t know. She didn’t say anything. Just… kept going. She didn’t tell anyone.”
Harold frowned. “Who did this?”
Lucian shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. She took the hit. And she kept fighting. She got us out.”
His voice cracked.
“I should’ve noticed.”
He finally looked up, eyes rimmed with exhaustion and disbelief. “It was her, Grandpa. All this time… It was her. Black Harrow. And I didn’t see it—even when she bled for me.”
Harold stared at him for a long moment, then turned toward the double door of the surgical suite, his expression unreadable.
They waited in silence.
Then, at last, the soft chime of the elevator cut through the heavy stillness, followed by the slow parting of the doors.
Maxim Thorne stepped out into the corridor—not with urgency, but with a quiet gravity that made everyone instinctively straighten. For a moment, he didn’t move at all; he simply stood there beneath the recessed lights, the collar of his coat dampened by rain, shoulders drawn back in that ever-imposing posture of his, and yet, beneath the surface, something in his presence was palpably different. It was in the way his eyes scanned the hallway—not just assessing, but searching—and in the brief flicker of something uncharacteristically human behind them: not frustration, not anger, but a deep, bone-deep tension that came from not knowing.
When he began to walk, it was slow, purposeful—every step betraying the fact that this was not a boardroom crisis he could maneuver or negotiate his way through. His silence wasn’t cold; it was tightly controlled, the silence of a man who could not yet afford to let emotion slip past the walls he’d spent decades building.
He said nothing at first as his gaze swept across Lucian, Harold, and the others. His eyes lingered on Lucian’s soaked and blood-streaked sleeves, the fatigue drawn sharply across the young man’s features, then slid past to the sterile white of the surgical suite doors, still glowing red, still closed—still holding everything he wanted to know just out of reach.
He didn’t ask what had happened. He didn’t need to. The pieces were already fitting together, and the weight of them settled heavily across his expression.
And in that stillness—just for a second—Maxim looked like a man who had spent his entire life preparing for every threat, every betrayal, every cost imaginable… except this.
Lucian rose to meet him. No words passed between them—just a grim nod.
Without needing to be asked, Lucian turned and led the group down the hallway to a side corridor. A quiet conference room stood near the outside of the surgical suite, its walls made entirely of glass. From where they stood, they could still see the surgical suite door.
Ash, Vex, Eli, Harold, and Maxim followed him in. The room was silent except for the whispering hum of the storm beyond the walls. The glass walls felt like both a cage and a shield—offering a view of the operating room, but no real protection from what might come out of it.
Lucian didn’t sit. He stood near the glass, back stiff, arms crossed, eyes still fixed on the glowing red of the OR door. The others lingered in silence, waiting—until Lucian finally turned, his voice low and rough.
“You knew.”
Maxim looked at him, unreadable. “Lucian—”
“You knew who she was,” Lucian pressed, voice low and cold. “Before all this. Before today.”
Maxim didn’t answer at first. He moved toward the window, placing a hand against the glass as the rain traced silent patterns down its surface. His silence wasn’t denial—it was calculation.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he said quietly.
Lucian’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying,” Maxim replied, his voice calm. “I genuinely don’t know what you mean.”
Lucian took a step closer. The room seemed to tighten around them.
“Then let me help,” he said. “Black Harrow.”
A flicker—quick, controlled—crossed Maxim’s reflection. Not shock. Not fear. Just the subtle collapse of a wall he no longer bothered to hold.
Lucian didn’t look away. “You knew.”
Maxim turned, his expression stripped of pretense.
“Yes,” he said. “I knew.”
The room seemed to shrink around those words.
Lucian blinked, as if part of him still hoped he’d misheard. “All this time…”
“She was never supposed to be assigned to you,” Maxim said, quieter now. “That wasn’t the plan. But she volunteered. I tried to stop her, but once Raven decides something…” He shook his head. “You’ve seen it yourself.”
Lucian’s throat worked around the surge of emotion. “And you let her?”
Maxim exhaled. “Not at first. She asked to be your bodyguard when she was eighteen—after her first three missions as Black Harrow. But I had already sent Sebastian to you. And I was scared.”
Lucian looked up, frowning. “Scared of what?”
Maxim hesitated. “That…”
The words never made it out.
The doors to the surgical suite swung open with a soft hiss, and a doctor stepped out, removing her gloves with careful precision. She paused in the threshold, scanning the group before settling on Lucian, who looked like he hadn’t moved in hours.
“She’s stable,” the doctor said. “The bleeding was controlled, and we repaired the damage to her shoulder. There was no injury to the lung, though it was close. She’s lucky.”
Maxim exhaled—quietly, almost inaudibly—but Lucian caught it. The first crack in the armor.
Lucian didn’t breathe—until she said those words. Then, slowly, his shoulders dropped. But his voice remained tight. “Where is she now?”
“We’re finishing and cleaning her up. Then she’ll be transferred to a room upstairs.”
“I want her in the private wing,” Lucian said immediately. “Clear the floor if you have to.”
The doctor blinked, taken aback by the authority in his voice. “That’s… not standard protocol.”
“I don’t care. She’s under Sinclair protection. I’ll sign whatever forms you need.”
Harold nodded once, confirming it. “Do it.”
A nurse appeared behind the doctor, pushing open another set of doors. Moments later, Raven emerged—pale, unconscious, her arm carefully immobilized, an oxygen line tucked at her nose, and her dark hair damp against the pillow. She looked nothing like the force she was mere hours ago.
But she was alive.
Lucian stepped forward before anyone else, his hand hovering just above hers without touching. Then, in silence, he fell into step beside the gurney. The others followed—Maxim, Harold, Ash, Vex, Eli—all of them moving down the corridor like shadows, guarding the one person who had always done the guarding.
Sinclair Dominion Hospital | Private Wing | Raven’s Room
Almost Midnight
The room was dimly lit, softened by the amber glow of the wall sconce and the hush of machines. Raven lay still on the hospital bed, her right shoulder carefully bandaged, a line of monitors tracing the quiet rhythms of her pulse and breath. The storm outside had faded to a drizzle, but the tension in the room had not.
Maxim sat beside her, coat draped over the chair’s back, one hand gently curled around hers. His thumb brushed along her knuckles in slow, steady motions—absentminded, perhaps, but tender. His expression was unreadable at first glance, carved into the usual composure he wore like armor. But the longer Lucian stood at the doorway, the more cracks he saw. In the way Maxim’s jaw clenched. In the faint crease between his brows. In the careful stillness of his breathing, like he was afraid even a whisper might wake her too soon—or take her further away.
Lucian stepped in, quiet but deliberate, his gaze fixed on their joined hands. He didn’t speak at first. He didn’t know what to say. Raven was Black Harrow. A weapon. A bodyguard. A myth. And yet… Maxim looked at her not like a man watching over an agent or a subordinate, but something far more fragile. More personal.
Something Lucian couldn’t quite name.
“She’ll be out for a few hours,” Maxim murmured without turning. “The painkillers are strong. And she needs the rest.”
Lucian crossed his arms, still standing. “You’re staying?”
Maxim finally looked up. “Of course I am.”
“You said she didn’t want anyone to know. That she volunteered. But now you’re here like—” Lucian hesitated. “Like she’s not just someone who works for you.”
Maxim’s eyes softened. “You’re perceptive.”
Lucian frowned. “She’s your weapon. Isn’t she?”
“No,” Maxim said, quiet but resolute. “She’s family.”
Eli’s head lifted slightly at that, his brow creased—not fully understanding, but feeling the weight of something unspoken. Ash and Vex exchanged a glance, their guarded expressions flickering with unease, as if a puzzle they'd lived beside for years had just shifted. But it was Harold who simply nodded, slowly, his face unreadable—as though confirming an old truth he had dared not voice, not until now.
That landed heavier than Lucian expected. He opened his mouth but didn’t know what to say.
The words had hit something unguarded—something he wasn’t ready to name. His jaw tensed, breath caught in his throat. He shut his mouth again, letting the silence speak in his place.
Maxim exhaled, stood slowly, and addressed the others—Harold, Eli, Vex, and Ash. “Go home. Get some rest. You’ve all done more than enough. I’ll stay here.”
Lucian didn’t hesitate. “No. I’m not leaving.”
Eli stilled near the door, his posture shifting ever so slightly—not tense, but alert. His eyes flicked toward Lucian, watching him now with something unreadable. Not confusion. Intrigue. Like he was trying to reconcile this version of Lucian with the one he thought he knew.
Across the room, Harold’s gaze lifted, slow and deliberate. He didn’t speak. Didn’t interrupt. But his fingers paused where they’d been steepled in thought. The weight of his attention was unmistakable—quiet, measured, and laced with interest. As though something about Lucian’s decision had just confirmed a theory he wasn’t ready to name.
No one said a word.
But the air had changed.
Maxim raised a brow, but Lucian stepped closer to the bed, eyes on Raven.
“She took a hit for me. I’m staying.”
She had thrown herself into the path of a sniper's bullet without hesitation. That wasn’t loyalty. That was something far more terrifying. And far more personal.
There was no walking away from that.
Then he turned to Eli. “Take Grandpa home. Bring back a change of clothes. Mine and hers.”
Ash gently nudged Vex and gestured toward the door. Harold lingered a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before he turned and left with them.
And then it was quiet again.
Maxim moved aside, offering Lucian the chair, but Lucian didn’t take it—not yet. He stood at her bedside, eyes fixed on her sleeping face, like he was still trying to understand the person lying there—who she’d been, who she still was, and what it meant that she’d chosen to bleed for him.
She wasn’t just a name anymore. She was the reason he would never see the world the same way again.
—To be continued.
