"That's it. Stay with me." I stroke his face, leaving smears of blood on his cheek. "Keep fighting."
"Careful," I warn as they lift him. "Steady."
We load him into the back of the pickup, and I climb in, positioning myself right next to him.
"I've got you," I whisper, brushing blood-matted hair from his forehead. "Just hold on."
The truck bounces over the uneven terrain, each jolt drawing a groan from Jace's lips. I whisper soothing nonsense, promises I'm not sure I can keep, anything to hold him here with me.
We meet Doc's vehicle on a deserted stretch of road. The older man works with practiced efficiency, inserting an IV, hanging blood, and checking vitals.
"Damn good job with that seal," he tells me, nodding approvingly at my handiwork. "Probably saved his life."
Doc's face is grim as he listens to Jace's chest. "Bullet's lodged near his left lung. He needs surgery immediately."
The rest of the journey passes in a blur as I watch the steady drip of fluids into Jace's veins. I hold his hand, squeezing gently, willing my strength into him.
"I love you," I whisper again, lips close to his ear. “I love you, you hear me? So you don't get to leave me. Not when I've just found you."
His fingers twitch in mine, the barest response, but enough for now.
When we reach the compound, everything accelerates. Brothers carry Jace to the medical room I'd seen during my tour with Mama Pat. It's been transformed into a makeshift operating theater—sterile drapes, surgical instruments laid out, monitors beeping.
"You need to wait outside," Doc tells me gently.
"I can assist," I argue. "I have medical training."
"Basic first aid isn't surgery, honey." His eyes are kind but firm. “Don’t get me wrong, you did great. But you're too emotionally involved. Let me do my job."
Strong hands guide me away from the table where Jace lies pale and still. Fury, I realize, as the door closes between me and the man I love.
"Come on," Fury says quietly. "Let's get you cleaned up."
I look down at my hands, my clothes, smeared with drying blood. Jace's blood. A sob tears from my throat, the first of many as the adrenaline finally ebbs, leaving raw terror in its wake.
He leads me to a bathroom, turns on the shower, and leaves me with clean clothes and a towel. I stand under the scalding spray, watching crimson swirl down the drain, and I break apart completely.
Time loses meaning. I dress mechanically in the clothes provided—sweatpants and a t-shirt—and find myself in a waiting area where club members gather in tense silence.
Zeus paces the length of the room. "You okay?" he asks gruffly when he sees me.
The question almost makes me laugh. Okay? Will I ever be okay again if Jace doesn't make it?
I sink into a chair instead of answering. Mama Pat appears beside me. What’s she doing here? She doesn’t live at thecompound. Someone must have called her. Based on the caftan she’s wearing and the bonnet covering her hair, she was probably at home relaxing. She presses a glass of sweet tea into my trembling hands.
"Drink," she orders. "You're in shock. You need the sugar.”
I obey automatically as I stare at the wall. The voices around me fade into background noise. All I can think about is Jace's face, the way his eyes had started to glaze over as he stared up at the stars. The gurgling sound of his breathing.
Hours pass. Club members come and go. Someone brings food that sits untouched. Mama Pat stays beside me, a solid presence, occasionally squeezing my hand or murmuring words of comfort I barely register.
Finally, the door opens. Doc emerges, blood-stained and exhausted. The room falls silent as every eye turns to him.
"He's alive and holding steady,” Doc announces, and the collective exhale is audible. "Bullet missed his heart by centimeters, punctured his left lung, and fractured two ribs. I've removed it, repaired what I could, and drained the blood from his chest cavity. The next twenty-four hours are critical."
"Can I see him?" My hoarse voice sounds foreign to my own ears.
Doc nods. “Okay, but be prepared. He's heavily sedated and on a ventilator.”
