Chapter 163: The Last Heir 2

Damon’s POV

“Trauma team! Get the surgical unit out here right now!” I roared at the top of my lungs.

Nurses gasped, dropping clipboards as they saw a broad-shouldered teenager in full body armor and bloody combat gear storming through their lobby carrying a dying boy.

A tall man in surgical scrubs rushed around the corner. It was Dr. Bennett, the chief of emergency medicine, who had treated my sports injuries since I was ten years old.

“Master Damon?!” Dr. Bennett gasped, his eyes bulging in pure shock. “What in God’s name—”

“Gunshot wound to the left shoulder!” I barked, cutting him off as two nurses rushed forward with a mobile gurney. “Massive blood loss! Get him into the operating theater right now, Bennett!”

Dr. Bennett didn’t waste time asking questions. He checked Micah’s dilated pupils, felt the weak pulse in his neck, and barked orders to his team.

“Type-O negative, four units immediately! Prep OR Three! Move, move, move!”

They transferred Micah onto the gurney, wheels squealing against the polished tiles as they rushed him down the trauma corridor. I tried to follow them, my boots leaving bloody prints on the clean floor, but a surgical nurse stepped into my path, shoving a clipboard into my hands.

“You cannot enter the sterile bay, sir! You need to sign the emergency consent and authorization forms right now!”

My hands were shaking violently as I grabbed the pen. I scribbled my signature across the liability lines, my fingers leaving smeared crimson fingerprints on the paper.

The double doors of Operating Room Three swung shut, and the bright red IN SURGERY sign flickered to life.

Then came the waiting.

An hour passed. Then two.

I didn’t take off my heavy ceramic vest. I didn’t unstrap my mag pouches or holster. I sat on the hard plastic waiting room bench, my head in my hands, staring down at Micah’s blood dried thick and dark across the fabric of my trousers.

Every second that ticked past on the wall clock felt like a hammer striking my chest. What if the bullet had severed the artery? What if his heart stopped on the table? If Micah died in that room, I knew I would never recover.

Heavy, steady footsteps echoed down the empty corridor.

I looked up.

Flanked by two personal security guards, my father walked around the corner.

He was dressed in his tailored dark wool coat, his hair neatly combed, but his face was tight with intense exhaustion.

He stopped five feet from where I sat. His dark eyes scanned my body armor, the tactical harness, and the heavy smear of fresh blood covering my hands.

He didn’t yell. He just let out a long, heavy, weary exhale through his nose.

“Damon,” my father said, his voice deep and solemn.

I stood up slowly, wiping my dry palms against my thighs. “Father. What are you doing here?”

“The hospital administrator called my private line forty minutes ago,” Mr. Silver said, crossing his arms. “He informed me that my eldest son had kicked down the doors of my emergency facility, fully armed in tactical military gear, demanding an immediate trauma surgery.”

My father looked at the red surgical light above the doors, then turned his gaze back to me.

“Who is in that room, Damon?” he asked.

I wanted to deflect. I wanted to throw out a sarcastic lie like I always did to protect myself.

Looking into my father’s steady, serious eyes, the words died in my throat.

“It’s Micah,” I answered quietly, my voice cracking slightly. “Micah Miller.”

My father’s eyebrows drew together into a hard line. “Bernard Miller’s boy? The one you brought to breakfast this morning?”

“Yes,” I nodded.

“And why is he in a surgical theater?”

“He was shot,” I replied, the guilt burning like acid in my stomach. “A bullet tore through his shoulder. He took the round to save someone else.”

Mr. Silver’s expression darkened into cold stone. “How does a university student get shot under your watch, Damon? What kind of war were you fighting tonight?”

I parted my lips to answer, to explain the underground bunker, Plan Mayor, and Bernard’s ambush.

BANG!

The heavy glass entrance doors at the end of the trauma hallway slammed open violently.

Rapid, aggressive footsteps marched down the corridor.

Noah strode into the hallway.

He was still wearing his full tactical assault gear, but his face and arms were covered in black soot, gunpowder residue, and fresh blood. His jaw was clenched so hard the tendons bulged against his neck. Right behind him, walking with dignified, measured urgency, was David.

Noah didn’t even look at my father. He locked his blue eyes onto me, closing the distance in three massive strides.

“Where is he?!” Noah roared, grabbing my tactical shoulder strap.

“He’s still in surgery,” I answered immediately, holding my hands up. “They took him into OR Three two hours ago. They’re still working on him.”

Noah’s chest heaved with ragged breaths, his grip loosening as he turned his face toward the red surgical sign, his entire body trembling with agonizing suspense.

Beside us, my father took a sudden, sharp breath.

Mr. Silver wasn’t looking at Noah. His eyes were locked completely on the older man standing in the shadows behind Noah’s shoulder.

My father’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“David?” my father breathed out, his voice shaking with genuine shock.

David stopped, clasping his hands in front of his waist, and looked back at my father.

“You’re… you’re alive?” He stammered, taking a slow step forward. “The entire city believed you were burned to ash in the Whitfield estate fire twenty years ago. How is this possible?”

My father slowly turned his gaze from David to the tall, blood-soaked young man standing beside me. His sharp mind pieced the puzzle together in a fraction of a second, his breath catching in his throat.

“If you survived that fire, David…” Mr. Silver whispered, staring at Noah in utter awe. “And you are serving Bernard Miller’s son… does that mean…?”

David bowed his head with deep, absolute reverence.

He gestured with an open palm toward the young man whose cold blue eyes burned with anger.

“Yes, Mr. Silver,” David answered smoothly. “This is the true master of the estate. The last surviving heir of the Whitfield bloodline. Noah Whitfield.”