"Get away from him!" Harrison Carlisle roared, storming the altar. He pointed a trembling finger at Chloe. "You! Get your hands off my nephew!"
A young woman in a lavender dress, Penelope Sinclair, Alistair's cousin, rushed forward, her high heels clicking frantically on the marble. She grabbed Chloe's arm, her nails digging in. "Don't you touch him, you freak!"
Chloe's eyes went dead cold. In one fluid motion, she twisted her arm, using Penelope's own momentum against her. She hooked the woman's wrist, pivoted, and sent her stumbling backward, straight into a group of groomsmen. Penelope shrieked as she collided with a row of wooden pews, the sound of her pain lost in the general uproar.
Chloe looked up at Harrison, her gaze so sharp, so filled with menace, that he physically recoiled. "Every second you waste is another second he dies," she hissed. "If you get in my way, you're an accessory to murder."
The accusation, so bald and direct, stunned him into silence.
That was all the time she needed.
Her left hand shot under the voluminous skirt of her wedding dress. The fabric provided the perfect cover. Her fingers found the hidden garter, closing around the slim, hard needles. She palmed three of them, the tiny metal points cool against her skin.
Her other hand moved over Alistair's chest, her touch firm and diagnostic. She found the pressure points, the critical nerve clusters she knew by heart. Sternal notch. Intercostal space. Vagus nerve access.
Without hesitation, she plunged the needles in. One, two, three. Quick, precise, and deep. The goal wasn't to cure, but to interrupt. To create a physical blockade, slowing the toxin's deadly march toward his heart.
Alistair's ashen face, which had been turning a deathly shade of grey, regained a flicker of color. It was almost imperceptible, but she saw it.
"Make way! Let me through!" A portly, balding man, Dr. Coleman, the family physician, puffed his way up the aisle, a medical bag swinging from his hand.
As he knelt, Chloe swiftly withdrew the needles, clenching them in her fist. The movement was a blur, too fast for anyone to register. She had left no trace.
Dr. Coleman fumbled for his stethoscope, checked Alistair's pulse, and shone a penlight into his eyes. A look of utter disbelief crossed his face. "His vitals... they're stabilizing. It's... it's a miracle."
Chloe stood up, the authority in her voice absolute. "He's not stable, he's temporarily firewalled. Get him out of here. Now. I need a private room with sterile conditions."
Stone, the bodyguard, looked from Chloe to Harrison, his expression torn. But there was something in Chloe's command, a natural, undeniable power, that made his decision for him. He nodded curtly. "Yes, ma'am."
He and two other guards carefully lifted Alistair onto a collapsible stretcher they produced from a nearby alcove. They moved quickly, pushing him toward a VIP lounge behind the apse.
Chloe gathered the heavy skirts of her gown and followed, leaving the chaos, the whispers, and the stunned faces of the Carlisle clan behind.
The moment the heavy door of the lounge closed, sealing them in, she was in charge. "I need epinephrine, a hundred milligrams, and a broad-spectrum cholinesterase inhibitor. Atropine, if you have it," she snapped at Dr. Coleman.
The doctor stared at her, aghast. "That's an incredibly aggressive protocol! We don't even have a confirmed diagnosis. I can't administer unverified treatments!"
Chloe didn't have time to argue. She snatched the medical bag from his hand, her movements a blur of efficiency. She found the vials, checked the labels, and filled a syringe with a skill that surpassed the doctor's thirty years of practice.
"What do you think you're doing?" he sputtered.
She ignored him, kneeling beside Alistair again. She found the vein in his arm, slid the needle in with an expert touch, and slowly, steadily, pushed the plunger.
The room fell silent, the only sound the frantic ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner and the faint, rhythmic beep of the portable heart monitor the guards had attached.
Chloe watched the monitor, her brow furrowed in concentration. A single bead of sweat traced a path down her temple. Come on. Fight.
Suddenly, Alistair's fingers twitched, then clenched into a fist.
His eyes flew open.
There was no grogginess, no confusion of a man waking from the brink of death. There was only the raw, predatory alertness of a cornered animal.
His right hand shot out, a blur of motion, and clamped around her throat.
The grip was like steel. His thumb pressed against her windpipe, cutting off her air. Black spots danced in her vision. The sheer power in his hand was terrifying, a stark contrast to the lifeless body she had been treating moments before.
But she didn't struggle. She didn't fight.
She met his gaze, her own eyes unwavering and cold.
Through the crushing pressure, she forced the words out, a ragged, strangled whisper.
"I'm... your bride. And the one... who just pulled you out of hell."
