Chapter 8 8

Dawn stumbled out of the building. The bright daylight stung her eyes. The blood was flowing freely now, warm and sticky on her cheek.

Lydia ran out onto the stoop behind her, waving a broom like a madwoman. "Thief! Come back here!"

Frank, the driver, was out of the car in a second. He saw the blood on Dawn's face and his expression went dark. He stepped between Dawn and the stoop, his massive frame blocking Lydia completely.

Lydia skidded to a halt. She looked at the car, then at the giant man in the suit, then at the diamond on Dawn's finger. She lowered the broom.

"She stole from me!" Lydia yelled, but her voice lacked conviction.

Frank ignored her. He opened the back door. "Get in, Mrs. Holcomb."

Dawn climbed in, clutching the iron box. Frank slammed the door and got into the driver's seat. He was already dialing a number.

"Sir. We have a situation. She's injured. Head wound. Yes. Bad."

Dawn leaned her head back against the leather seat. She felt faint. She heard Frank say, "Lenox Hill. Understood."

Twenty minutes later, the car screeched to a halt at the emergency entrance of Lenox Hill Hospital.

Before Frank could even open the door, another car-a silver sports car-roared up behind them and parked diagonally across the ambulance lane.

Gerhard got out.

He wasn't wearing a jacket. His sleeves were rolled up. His face was a mask of pure, cold fury.

He ripped Dawn's door open.

When he saw her-the blood matted in her hair, the red stain spreading on her white shirt-he stopped. His pupils dilated until his eyes were almost black.

"Dawn," he breathed.

He didn't ask if she could walk. He reached in and scooped her up into his arms.

He lifted her easily, as if she weighed nothing. Dawn instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck, still holding the iron box with one hand.

"Gerhard," she whispered. "I'm okay. It's just a cut."

"Quiet," he snapped. He strode into the ER.

The chaotic waiting room seemed to fall silent as he entered. He didn't roar. His voice, when he spoke to the approaching nurse, was low and laced with ice. "Get me your chief of surgery. Now."

The nurse saw his face. She saw the blood. She saw the look in his eyes that promised consequences. "Right this way."

They were ushered into a private trauma room. Gerhard placed her gently on the gurney, but he didn't let go of her hand.

A doctor came in and started cleaning the wound. "It's a nasty gash. You'll need stitches."

Dawn winced as the antiseptic stung the cut. Her grip on Gerhard's hand tightened.

Gerhard looked at the doctor. "Do it. Use the smallest gauge needle. I don't want a scar."

The doctor nodded nervously and began to stitch.

"Who did this?" Gerhard asked. He wasn't looking at the doctor. He was looking at Dawn. His voice was terrifyingly calm.

"Lydia," Dawn said. "We fought over the box."

Gerhard looked at the rusted iron box sitting on the foot of the bed. "That?"

"It's all I have," Dawn said.

Gerhard's jaw tightened. A muscle feathered in his cheek. He pulled out his phone with his free hand. He dialed Sterling.

"Execute Plan B," Gerhard said. "Lydia Roth. I want the foreclosure process started today. And file a police report for assault and attempted theft."

Dawn's eyes widened. "Gerhard, you don't have to..."

"She drew blood," Gerhard cut her off. He looked at her, his eyes blazing. "She hurt what is mine. No one touches what is mine."

Dawn shivered. It wasn't a romantic declaration. It was a territorial one. But in that moment, with her head throbbing and the adrenaline crashing, it felt like the safest thing she had ever heard.

"Is it done?" Gerhard asked the doctor.

"Yes. Six stitches. Keep it dry."

Gerhard nodded. He helped Dawn sit up.

"Can you walk?"

"Yes," Dawn said.

He picked her up anyway.

"Gerhard, people are watching," she murmured into his shoulder.

"Let them watch," he said. He carried her out to the car, the iron box tucked safely between them.