My throat tightens as I blink him in, and despite the blood, pain, smudged lines of control, he’s still powerful and breathtaking. Stillhim.
And yet there’s something more now. Somethinghumanbeneath that violent, cocky facade.
“How about you promise not to die before I get the chance to strangle you myself?” I joke.
He grunts. “Kinky.”
“Not in the fun way,” I mutter, brushing hair from his forehead, my fingers leaving streaks of blood.
His eyes close, then open again slower. This time, when he looks at me, it’s with sincerity.
“Look… Livvie, I need to tell you something,” he says, voice hoarse.
“What?”
Before he can answer, the car jerks to a stop and the doors fly open at both sides. Bright lights flood in, followed by chaos, shouts, hands, and a stretcher.
There are medics everywhere, ticking off things I can’t process fast enough. Kingston is pulled from under me, and I scramble out behind, still reaching for him.
“Wait, he’s my husband. I need to stay with him.”
No one listens.
They’re wheeling him away on the stretcher, an oxygen mask pressed to his face as one of them barks vitals and another peels his bloody shirt away.
“Pulse weak but steady… Entry wound left shoulder, possibly a through-and-through… Keep pressure on?—”
“I’m coming with him,” I snap, hot on their heels as they rush him into the glaring lights of the ER.
But just before the sliding doors can close behind us, a nurse in scrubs steps in front of me, palms out, blocking my path.
“Ma’am, you need to wait here. We’ll updateyou as soon as we can.”
I shake my head. “No, I’m going in… he’ll want me with him.”
“Ma’am.” Her voice is gentle but firm. “We’re doing everything we can. But you can’t follow into the trauma bay.”
I open my mouth to argue, rage swelling like it always does when someone tells me no, but then I stagger back, blood-streaked and trembling, just as the doors swing shut between us, cutting me off from him.
The hallway is cold. Too bright. And far too quiet for what’s happening behind that glass.
While I pace, Bronx Viacava explodes into the corridor like a lit fuse.
He reeks of expensive bourbon and fury, his suit jacket half-buttoned, his tie shoved into his pocket.
His phone is pressed to his ear, and his voice cuts through the sterile air like an explosion.
“Find out who did this,” he barks, not even looking at me yet. “I want names, locations, blood types—I don’t care if they’re halfway to the fucking airport, you drag them back and put them on their knees.”
His eyes finally land on me, still standing there with Kingston’s blood on my hands, my dress stained and rumpled, my chest heaving.
Bronx stalks toward me, all muscle and menace, like he’s ready to throw someone out a window just for breathing wrong.
His jaw is tight, his phone still clutched in one hand like he’s debating who to call next and how many bodies need to burn.
I lift my chin, forcing composure into my spine, even though my legs want to buckle.
“What the fuck happened?”
