The ride takes forever and no time at all.
I'm barely aware of the road beneath me, the wind in my face, the familiar rumble of the engine.
My hands are still crusted with blood—Virgil's blood—and I can feel it cracking and flaking as I grip the handlebars.
I should wash. Should clean up. Should make myself presentable before I walk into that hospital.
But I can't wait.
Every second away from her is agony.
When I finally push through the doors of the ER, Leah is waiting.
She's still in her scrubs, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she looks exhausted.
Terrified. Relieved.
All at once, emotions flickering across her face faster than I can track them.
"She's in trauma room four," Leah says before I can speak. "She's stable. The baby's stable. But Garrett..." Her voice wavers, and I see tears in her eyes. "What he did to her?—"
"I know." My voice comes out rougher than I intend. "I handled it."
Her eyes drop to my hands, to the blood that's dried in the creases of my knuckles, under my fingernails.
"Good," she whispers. And there's something fierce in her voice, something that reminds me she's my sister. My blood. "Good."
I don't wait for more.
I push past her, past the nurses who try to stop me, past the security guard who takes one look at my face and steps aside.
They can see what I am right now.
What I've done, and none of them want to get in my way.
Trauma room four.
I shove open the door.
And there she is.
Vanna.
My wife.
She's on the bed, surrounded by machines and monitors, IVs running into both arms.
Her face is a mess of bruises—purple and black and sickly yellow around the edges.
Her lip is split.
Her eyes are swollen nearly shut.
But she's awake.
And she's looking at me.
"Garrett." Her voice is barely a whisper, cracked and hoarse, but it's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.
