“Morphine, yes,” one paramedic said in accented English.
The relief on Brooke’s face when the morphine hit was almost harder to watch than the pain had been. Her whole body sagged, the rigid tension finally releasing.
“Owen,” she whispered, her voice slurred but urgent.
My chest tightened. Even now, she was thinking about him?
“He was never…” She paused, fighting through the medication fog. “Rav, don’t let go.”
Something inside me that had been clenched since I’d seen her walk away with Owen finally released. All the doubt and the stupid jealousy. She loved me. She’d said she never stopped.
“I know,” I said, pressing my lips to her forehead—the only place I could touch her without risking making it worse. “I know, sweetheart.”
The paramedics were moving faster now, their voices sharp with urgency I didn’t need translated. They loaded her into the helicopter. I tried to follow, but one paramedic held up a hand. “No space. You follow?—”
“I will throw every fucking one of you out of this bird and fly it myself.”
Something in my face must have convinced him, because he nodded and gestured to a seat. I squeezed in, keeping hold of Brooke’s hand as they worked.
She was drifting now, the morphine pulling her under. But she kept murmuring—my name, fragments of chemical formulas, apologies that made no sense.
As we lifted off, the music, laughter, and lights began invading my brain again. Thousands of people below us had no idea how close they’d come to the same fate as Brooke. But they hadn’t, because one woman had been willing to throw herself at a loaded weapon.
The woman I’d failed to protect. Again.
No. I forced that thought away. She’d made a choice. The second she went with Owen, she chose to save those people, to stop Martinelli’s insane plan. Just like I’d chosen to put my body in front of hers when the gunman appeared in that window six years ago.
I’d saved her that day.
And today, we’d worked together to save so many more.
Because we were a team.
She was my partner. And I was never letting her go again.
Chapter 43
Brooke
The world came backin pieces. First, the antiseptic smell that meant hospital. Then the soft beeping of machines. My mouth felt like cotton had been wadded up inside it, leaving no moisture.
“Water,” I said.
Or maybe I’d used my inside voice.
It was hard to tell.
I tried to open my eyes, but they were heavy.
So. Heavy.
A sound to my right. Someone shifted in what sounded like vinyl.
My eyelids finally cooperated, cracking open to find myself in a hospital room. My head was raised, but leaned far enough back that I could doze off again.
The someone moved again, and I rolled my head to the side. Rav was asleep in what had to be the world’s least comfortable chair, pulled close to my bed so his hand rested inches from mine.
He looked terrible. His stubble had gone past fashionable into unkempt, and the dark circles under his eyes suggested he’d been awake far more than asleep.
