Chapter 166 Names Written in Ash

Noah’s POV

Listening to Mr. Silver explain the past made the pieces fall into place with clarity.

All these years, Julian Silver had looked at me with cold disgust because he thought Bernard had slaughtered my family, and he believed I was Bernard’s child. He hated my face because he thought I was the enemy. He had no idea that the boy he resented on the ice was the exact same child he had sworn to protect twenty years ago.

It was an emotional, twisted mess, but I didn’t care about the past right now.

Hiss.

The heavy pneumatic doors of Operating Room Three slid open.

The chief surgeon stepped into the corridor, pulling down his pale blue surgical mask.

I didn’t wait. I crossed the hallway in two violent strides, stopping right in front of him.

“My brother,” I demanded, my voice raw and trembling with suppressed rage. “Is he alive?”

Dr. Bennett let out a long, heavy sigh, looking between my blood-soaked tactical gear, Damon groaning on the floor, and Mr. Silver standing nearby.

“He survived the operation, Captain,” the doctor said, wiping a line of sweat from his forehead. “The bullet shattered his left clavicle and tore through muscle tissue, but it missed the main subclavian artery by less than two millimeters. He is out of immediate danger.”

The breath I had been holding for the last two hours finally tore out of my chest. My knees felt dangerously light, but I forced my spine to stay rigid.

“However,” Dr. Bennett added, his expression turning grave, “he suffered severe trauma and catastrophic arterial hemorrhaging before he arrived. He has lost an immense amount of blood. His vitals are unstable, and his body is going into hypovolemic shock. He requires an immediate, high-volume blood transfusion.”

“Take mine,” I said without missing a single beat, ripping off my tactical glove and extending my bare arm.

“We can’t,” Dr. Bennett shook his head. “We already checked his emergency admission profile. His blood type is O-negative. Universal donor, but extremely restrictive when receiving. What is your type?”

“A-positive,” I muttered, the words tasting like poison on my tongue.

My knuckles turned white.

Our blood didn’t match. Of course it didn’t. We didn’t share a single drop of biological blood, and that harsh reality felt like a fresh bullet punching through my ribs.

“Then find someone right now,” I snapped, taking a threatening step forward, my eyes burning into the doctor’s face. “Call the staff. Gather donors from every floor. I will pay whatever it takes. I don’t care if it costs ten million dollars. Get the blood into his body!”

“Noah, calm down!” Damon barked from the floor, pushing himself upright against the wall while clutching his bruised ribs.

Dr. Bennett held up both hands. “Calm down, young man. This is St. Jude Private Hospital. We have rare blood reserves at our central metropolitan branch. A temperature-controlled courier transport was dispatched twenty minutes ago. The units will be here in less than ten minutes. He will receive the transfusion, I assure you.”

I stared at the doctor, the adrenaline slowly draining from my skull.

“Oh,” I muttered softly. “Good.”

Mr. Silver stepped up beside me, resting a hand on my shoulder for a brief second.

“Julian Silver’s hospitals do not let patients die over supply shortages, Noah,” the older man said quietly. “Rest easy. Micah will pull through.”

Mr. Silver checked his watch, letting out an exhausted breath. He looked down at Damon, who was still wincing on the floor.

“I am heading home to check on the twins,” Mr. Silver said, adjusting the collar of his coat. “The house needs to be secured after the syndicate’s collapse. David has my private satellite line. When you are ready for the card, Noah, you know where to find me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Silver,” I nodded.

My father’s old friend turned on his polished shoes and walked down the corridor, disappearing into the private elevator.

The heavy glass doors slid shut, leaving just Damon and me standing outside the surgical bay.

David had stepped down the hallway to coordinate with our perimeter guards and prep the extraction logistics.

Damon leaned his back against the wall, crossing his arms over his armored chest. His dark eyes locked onto mine, his usual cocky smirk slowly fading into a sharp, serious glare.

“So,” Damon spoke, his voice quiet. “While you were whispering to David earlier, I heard you talking about leaving the country. You’re taking Micah to Greece, aren’t you?”

I didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

“I’m coming with you,” Damon stated flatly.

I turned my head, glaring at him with pure, irritated disbelief.

“The hell you are,” I scoffed coldly. “Micah is my brother. He is mine to protect. He has nothing to do with you or your family.”

A slow, challenging smile pulled at the corner of Damon’s lips. He pushed off the wall, stepping right into my personal space, completely unbothered by the blood staining my clothes or the gun resting on my hip.

“The last time I checked, Captain,” Damon purred smoothly, “you two aren’t related by blood. Bernard Miller stole both of you from different graves. You aren’t brothers, and now that Bernard is dead in a ditch, you aren’t even legally stepbrothers.”

Damon leaned in, his dark eyes flashing with stubborn defiance.

“Which means,” Damon added, “Micah doesn’t belong to you. And I have just as much right to protect him as you do.”

A violent inferno ignited in my chest.

I took half a step forward, closing the remaining inches between us until my chest plate slammed against his. My jaw locked tight, my cold blue eyes burning directly into his skull.

“Are you daring me, Silver?” I growled, my voice dropping into a lethal, venomous register. “Do you think because we survived a firefight together that I won’t break your neck right here in this hallway?”

Damon didn’t flinch.

Instead, he threw his head back and let out a breathless, genuine laugh that echoed off the sterile tiles.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Captain,” Damon chuckled, shaking his head. “You think I’m still scared of that psychotic glare? We’ve gone through absolute hell together over the last three days. We got shot at, we bled on the ice, and we basically rubbed each other’s balls in the mud saving your brother. We aren’t enemies anymore, Noah. Stop pretending we are.”

I froze.

The scowl deepened on my face, but the words died in my throat.

Fuck.

I hated that he was right. I hated that after watching him throw his body over Micah in that moving sedan, after watching him charge into a hail of syndicate bullets with a submachine gun, I couldn’t bring myself to despise him anymore. He had bled for Micah just as much as I had.

I let out an irritated hiss, violently turning my head away from him and staring at the floor.

“Just stay out of my way,” I muttered.

Damon smirked, leaning back against the wall. “Not a chance in hell, Captain.”

.

.

Three hours passed in agonizing silence.

The blood courier arrived, the transfusions were administered, and Micah was moved from the trauma bay into a private, high-security recovery suite on the top floor.

David posted four armed guards outside the room, clearing the wing of all non-essential personnel.

“He’s awake, Master,” David whispered, opening the door for us.

My heart jumped into my throat.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside, Damon following right behind me.

The private room was quiet, filled with the steady, rhythmic beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor.

Micah was lying in the center of the large hospital bed, propped up slightly by pillows. His left shoulder and upper torso were wrapped in thick, sterile white bandages, immobilizing the joint. An IV line was taped to the back of his right hand, feeding clear fluids and fresh blood into his veins.

His face was ghostly pale, his dark eyes heavy and bruised from exhaustion.

The moment his gaze landed on Damon and me, the tension drained from his small frame. A tiny, fragile smile touched his cracked lips.

“You’re both here…” Micah whispered, his voice thin, raspy, and barely louder than a breath. “I’m so happy… you two are safe.”

Hearing that weak, selfless voice broke something inside my chest.

I crossed the room in three long strides, stopping right beside the edge of the mattress. Damon moved around to the other side, leaning against the railing, his dark eyes softening with raw, unhidden affection.

I reached down with my bare hand, gently taking Micah’s small, cold fingers into mine.

“If you weren’t covered in surgical bandages right now,” I said, my voice rough and cracking with suppressed emotion, “I would give you a brutal knock upside the head.”

Micah blinked up at me, confused.

“How could you do something that reckless?” I demanded softly, my thumb stroking across his pale knuckles. “How could you throw your body in front of a gun for me? Do you have any idea what it felt like watching you bleed out on that dirt floor?!”

Micah tried to laugh, but a small wince of pain cut it short, his fingers squeezing mine with whatever tiny strength he had left.

“I’m fine, Noah,” Micah murmured weakly, looking between Damon and me. “I swear I’m fine. The pain is gone… the medicine is working.”

He took a shallow breath, his glassy eyes turning dark with an unbearable, heavy sadness.

“I had to do it,” Micah whispered, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. “I couldn’t let either of you die for me. You both have real lives. You both have proud bloodlines, great futures, and families that love you.”

Micah looked down at the hospital sheets, a single tear spilling over his eyelashes.

“And I… I have no one.”

The room went completely, suffocatingly still.

My grip tightened around his hand, a sharp pain twisting through my chest.

“What the hell are you talking about, Micah?” I asked, my voice shaking with sudden anger. “What do you mean you have no one? I am your brother, aren’t I?!”

Micah slowly shook his head against the pillow, looking up at me with broken, hollow eyes.

“No, Noah,” Micah whispered, his voice cracking into pieces. “You’re a Whitfield. You have a real family, an ancient estate, and a legacy waiting across the ocean.”

Micah turned his tear-streaked face toward the other side of the bed, staring at Damon.

“And you’re a Silver,” Micah continued softly. “You have your father, your brothers, and a real home.”

Micah looked down at his own trembling hands, fresh tears falling freely onto the blanket.

“Bernard Miller wasn’t my father. I was just a stolen child he kept in a cage to stare at.”

Micah’s breath hitched in a ragged, broken sob that echoed through the quiet room.

“I don’t even know whose blood runs in my veins, Noah. I don’t know who I am. I’m just a nobody.”