"It's okay," I croak out. "Let her in."
The nurse gives me a skeptical look but steps aside, and then Tildie is rushing across the room, stopping just short of the bed like she's afraid to touch me.
"Vanna." Her voice breaks on my name. "Oh God, Vanna, I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I should have—I tried to stop them—I ran inside to get help but by the time I?—"
"Tildie." I reach out with my free hand—the one not connected to Garrett—and she grabs it like a lifeline. "It wasn't your fault."
"I was right there." Tears are streaming down her face now, cutting tracks through her makeup. "I saw them take you and I couldn't—I didn't?—"
"You got help." I squeeze her fingers as hard as my battered body will allow. "You ran inside and you called the club and that's why they found me. That's why I'm here right now. You saved my life, Tildie."
"But if I'd been faster?—"
"Then they might have taken you too." I hold her gaze, forcing her to see the truth in my eyes. "And then Ruger would be the one sitting in that chair, and you'd be in this bed, and nothing would be different except there'd be two of us hurting instead of one."
She makes a choked sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
"Come here." I tug on her hand, and she leans down, and I wrap my arms around her as best I can with all the wires and tubes.
She smells like coffee and Ruger's cigarettes and vanilla perfume.
She smells like friendship. Like home.
"I'm so glad you're okay," she whispers against my hair. "When they brought you in, when I saw all the blood—I thought?—"
"I know." I hold her tighter. "But I'm okay. The baby's okay. We're going to be okay."
I'm not sure if I believe it yet.
But saying it out loud helps.
Like maybe if I repeat it enough times, it'll become true.
Tildie stays for an hour, filling the room with chatter about the clubhouse, about Ruger driving her crazy with his hovering, about Aunt Ellie stress-baking enough food to feed an army.
Normal things. Safe things.
The kind of mundane details that make me feel like maybe the world outside this hospital room hasn't completely fallen apart.
After she leaves, I sleep again.
That's mostly what I do these days.
Sleep, wake up, eat whatever Leah or the nurses bring me, sleep again.
My body is healing, but healing takes energy, and I don't have much to spare.
It's the middle of the night when the nightmare comes.
I'm back in the cabin.
Back on that filthy mattress with Virgil's weight pressing me down, his breath hot against my neck, his hands?—
I wake up screaming.
Garrett is there instantly, gathering me into his arms, holding me against his chest while I shake and sob and claw at the fabric of his shirt like I can climb inside him, like I can burrow somewhere safe where the memories can't reach me.
"You're okay," he murmurs into my hair. "You're safe. I've got you. He's dead, Van. He's dead and he can't hurt you anymore."
