The Prison-Made Queen novel Chapter 810

In seconds, the entire surgical field was flooded with dark red.

Dr. Watson’s brow creased sharply. He held his breath and shot a look at Leilani.

"Dr. Sloan, we have a major problem," he said tightly. "The bone fragments are too close to a major vessel in the lung. I can't clamp the bleeder, and my visibility is completely gone. If we don't get this under control, he's going to bleed out on the table."

Nobody had anticipated the hemorrhage to be this aggressive. The anesthesiologist was already scrambling to order massive blood transfusions, but without a clear field of vision, Dr. Watson couldn't safely repair the lung. If he couldn't see what he was cutting, Milford was dead.

Leilani didn't say a word. She stepped right up to the table and immediately applied firm, precise pressure to specific meridian points on Milford's chest and abdomen. Her frown deepened.

The operating room fell dead silent, the tension broken only by the frantic beeping of the monitor and the clinking of metal. The nurses and surgical techs watched her, holding their breath, wondering if the legendary "Miracle Doctor" was really as good as the rumors said.

A tense minute passed.

Without looking up, Leilani extended her hand. "Get me my sterile kit. The acupuncture needles."

Dr. Watson had heard Callahan brag about Leilani’s mastery of traditional holistic medicine, but he had never witnessed it in an OR setting.

While he hesitated, Leilani pulled on fresh gloves and unrolled the sterile canvas pouch the nurse handed her. With blinding speed and flawless precision, her fingers danced over Milford's skin, sinking the long, hair-thin silver needles into his flesh.

She was so focused she could carry on a conversation while performing the complex procedure.

"I'm placing the needles to restrict the blood flow locally. It'll slow the hemorrhage and give you a clear field," she instructed smoothly. "You clear the blood and repair the tissue while I manage the pressure. We work together."

Watching her hands fly across the patient's torso, Dr. Watson felt a spike of anxiety. He was terrified she might place a needle wrong while talking to him.

But then, the impossible happened.

As the final needle sank in, the relentless gush of blood from the punctured lung visibly slowed to a manageable trickle.

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