The phone rings, Killian picking up. “If you think I’m supporting you, you’ve lost your fucking mind,” he snaps, sounding more pissed than I have ever heard him. Not that I can care.
“It’s Sasha,” I say, and I can hear the fear lacing the gravel of my voice, making it as jagged as that glass. “I need help.”
Killian rumbles, “Coming.”
That is what I love about my brother. No extra words. No explanations.
Pressure is building in my chest as I hold both her hands in mine, trying to stop the bleeding.
Our bed is, once again, covered in blood but I kneel on the floor, my larger hands wrapped around her hands and wrists with all the pressure I can apply without hurting her.
“Sasha,” her name comes out broken. “Please wake up, baby.”
“Jesus Christ,” Killian utters from the doorway, his voice filled with disbelief.
My other brothers follow him in. “She won’t wake up,” I push out, my voice ripping from my throat.
Triston comes to the other side of the bed, taking her wrist from my hand so he can put pressure on it. “It’s her hand too,” I say to him. “I think.”
“You think?”
“There was so much blood.”
Triston holds her hands in both his, while Gris speaks behind me. “I need Dr. Kent. Right now. It’s an emergency.”
Rush walks into the bathroom. “Holy shit,” he calls out. “What the fuck?”
I grimace, my face freezing in lines of agony. I should be laying on this bed bleeding, not her.
I should… “I’m so sorry, baby,” I whisper the words, ready to break down. “When you wake up, you cut me to fucking pieces. You break me however you want. Just wake up, sweetheart. Please.”
Killian comes back from the kitchen with a wet towel in his hand. Standing next to me, he wipes Sasha’s face.
Her eyes jerk open.
“Baby?” I lift my head, hope rising in my chest.
“Don’t call me that,” she murmurs before her eyes slide closed again.
“Keep your eyes open,” I order. I’m not angry at her. But I need her to listen.
She opens them again, her face deathly pale and her eyes distant and unfocused.
Keeping one hand tight around her wrist and palm, I slide the other around her neck lifting her head. “How badly did you cut yourself?”
“Cut?” she asks, her brow furrowing.
“With the glass. How deep are the cuts?”
“I was tapping,” she answers, her lids drooping again.
“Tapping?” Triston asks, but I ignore him.
“Unwrap her hand, quick, and see how bad it is.” Triston does as I ask, inspecting her hand as Killian keeps wiping the cool water over her face and chest.
“She’s still bleeding. Some of them are deep but not too long. Might require stitches but she won’t bleed out.”
My shoulders slump with relief. “Put pressure back on them. I’m going to have a look at this hand.” I do and am relieved to see that only a few fingers are cut on her right hand. I wrap it back up and then, holding her hand in both of mine, I lay my head down on the bed.
