Nico looked up. His cheek had reddened where she had struck him, but his voice stayed low. “Put your hand down.”
Camille laughed. “What are you going to do if I don’t?”
That was when someone moved. A medication tray hit the floor behind Adeline Marsh, scattering a plastic cup and two sealed syringes across the marble. The twenty-seven-year-old private nurse crossed the distance before anyone understood what she was doing — and caught Camille’s wrist in midair.
The room inhaled as one.
Adeline was not imposing. Faded blue scrubs, inexpensive sneakers, brown hair twisted into the same loose knot she had worn through a fourteen-hour shift. But her hand around Camille’s wrist did not tremble, and her other arm extended protectively in front of Nico.