Chapter 3 - BREAKING THE BLANKET
The air in the private sitting room turned to liquid ice. Frankie, Desmond's trusted head of security standing near the hallway doors, shifted his weight, his dark eyes widening slightly at the nurse's immediate refusal to obey a direct command from a man who controlled half the state's operations.
"Excuse me?" Desmond whispered, his gravelly voice dropping into a dangerous, lethal register.
"I'm here as your medical caregiver, Mr. Gallagher, not your housemaid," Emma said evenly. "If you want the glass swept, call housekeeping. If you want a medical assessment, start treating me like a professional."
Without waiting for his permission or hesitation, Emma took two steps forward, stepping around the broken crystal and the pool of spilled whiskey. She moved straight to the side of the sleek motorized wheelchair.
Before Desmond could react or maneuver his chair away, Emma reached down, grabbed the edge of the heavy gray wool blanket, and pulled it completely away from his lower body, tossing it onto the sofa behind him.
Desmond’s reaction was lightning fast. His broad, tattooed right hand shot out like a iron vise, clamping tightly around Emma’s slender wrist with terrifying strength.
"What the hell are you doing?" Desmond growled, his icy blue eyes blazing with a mix of fierce protection and raw anger. "Touch me again without my leave and you'll be thrown off this estate."
Emma did not pull away or struggle against his massive grip. She stood her ground, using her free left hand to gently but firmly press against the side of his knee, inspecting his exposed legs, which were encased in dark lounge pants.
"Checking what everyone else is too scared to look at," Emma said softly, her voice dropping its combative edge and replacing it with pure clinical precision.
She leaned down, pulling up the hem of his dark pant leg to expose his lower calf and ankle. The muscle had begun to atrophy from disuse, and right along the bony prominence of his lateral malleolus, the skin was flushed dark red—the unmistakable early stage of a pressure ulcer forming beneath the tissue.
She looked him straight in the eyes, her expression utterly devoid of pity.
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"Your circulation is terrible," Emma stated flatly, meeting his burning gaze. "And your skin is breaking down because your previous nurses were too afraid of your bad attitude to properly shift your position or check your skin integrity."
Desmond stared at her, his pulse hammering against his jaw. Slowly, as her words registered in his mind, his fingers relaxed their iron grip on her wrist. He lowered his hand back to the armrest of his chair.
