I'm holding his hand—have been since I sat down. His fingers are slack in mine, but warm. Alive.
I think about what it was like before him. All those weeks of running, hiding, jumping at every sound. And then one night alone in my apartment—and I almost didn't survive it.
I won't do that to him. When he wakes up, I'll be here.
The door opens. Maya slips in, tablet in hand, reading glasses perched on her nose. She looks exhausted—dark circles, hair escaping its ponytail—but her eyes are sharp.
"How is he?"
"Same." I don't let go of his hand. "Still out."
She checks the monitors, makes a note on her tablet. "He lost a lot of blood. Cracked ribs from the door—I've got them wrapped and stabilized. Contusions, lacerations, split knuckles."She rattles it off the way she'd read a grocery list. "But he's an orc. Give him a few months, he'll be good as new."
A few months. I touch my own shoulder—the graze from the safehouse, ten days old and still healing.
I remember Diesel changing the bandage, his big hands so careful, the way he wouldn't meet my eyes.
"He'll probably sleep through the night," Maya says. "Maybe longer. I've got eyes on him round the clock." She pauses to study me. "When did you last sleep?"
"I'm fine."
"That's not what I asked."
I don't answer.
She sighs and sets the tablet down. "I have sleeping pills. The good kind—knock you out for eight hours, no dreams. There's a bed in the next room. I'll wake you if anything changes."
"No. I want to be here when he wakes."
Maya watches me for a long moment. Then she nods.
"Okay." She picks up her tablet. "I'll be in my office. Crow's with me. Ash drove back to Atlanta—he and Nova are putting together the evidence to bury Venetti for good." She pauses at the door. "He cares about Diesel. We all do."
She leaves.
I turn back to Diesel and watch his chest rise and fall.
The nightmare is over. The running. The hiding.
I killed a man today.
I felt the recoil. Watched him drop.
I'm waiting for the guilt to hit. For the shaking to start.
It doesn't come.
Daniels. His friendly smile. The mask that slipped. The gun in my face, the note in his pocket, the life he was about to steal from me.
I would do it again without hesitation.
Maybe I'm the monster now.
I'm not sure I mind.
The door opens. Different footsteps this time—lighter, slower.
A woman steps in carrying a covered dish. Fortyish, dark hair streaked with gray, attractive in a lived-in way. She stops when she sees me.
