Bride Behind the Mask novel Chapter 866

The ambulance arrived just in time. After rushing to the hospital, the doctors quickly removed the bullet from Maurice and cleaned the wound.

He was wheeled into a private suite while Marguerite, still covered in blood, hurried to find a doctor.

The surgeon had just finished, wiping sweat from his brow, his face unreadable.

“Ms. Lockwood, Mr. Winston is incredibly lucky. If that bullet had been an inch closer, it would’ve hit his heart. He’s practically snatched his life back from the jaws of death.”

The more the doctor spoke, the more tangled Marguerite’s emotions became.

That bullet should have struck her—right between the eyes. Instead, Maurice had thrown himself in front of her, taking the shot.

She owed him her life. How could she ever repay a debt like that?

Her throat felt raw, and it took her several tries before she managed to speak.

“Will he have complications? Is he really out of danger now that the bullet’s gone?”

“For now, there’s no sign of any further major injuries,” the doctor replied. “But recovering from a gunshot wound isn’t easy, and the spot he was hit is tricky. He’ll need to stay in the hospital for a while. He shouldn’t be left alone during his recovery, so I’m counting on you, Ms. Lockwood.”

With that, the doctor left, and Marguerite returned to the stark, antiseptic-scented hospital room.

She found Maurice lying on the bed, eyes closed tight, his brow furrowed in pain. He looked so pale—his cheeks and lips almost white.

Just hours ago, he’d been the very image of power and command; now, he was silent and still, reduced to a wounded man tangled in blood-stained bandages, looking utterly defeated.

Maurice had always valued his dignity above all else. He’d probably never imagined he’d ever be brought so low.

Was this her fault?

Why had he come running? Why had he taken a bullet for her—without hesitation?

Marguerite couldn’t tell if the ache in her chest was guilt for what had happened to Maurice, or simply the pain of seeing him hurt.

She bent over, burying her hands in her disheveled hair.

Maurice’s blood had dried on her face, a constant reminder of what had happened: he had saved her life—risked his own for hers.

Suddenly, she felt a gentle warmth on her back, as though someone had placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“You stayed.”

The voice was low and hoarse—Maurice was awake.

Marguerite’s head shot up. “Are you in pain? Do you feel okay?”

Every movement clearly hurt him, and even smiling pulled at his wound, but he managed a small shake of his head.

“I’ll get the doctor,” Marguerite said, starting to rise.

Before she could turn away, his hand closed gently around her wrist. “Marguerite, compared to Silas, I matter, don’t I?”