Cavin makes a sound low in his throat—not quite a scream, more like a growl dragged up from somewhere deep and primal. His eyes roll back, and I fear he's going to pass out.
“He's a big man. I can't hold him if he?—”
“Fuck!” He gasps. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
“Done. It's done. It's back in.”
“Good,” he says, breathing hard.
This time, I can't help it. I fall to my knees, grab the wastebasket just in time, and heave up the contents of my dinner. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and take a deep breath. Got that sorted. I don’t have time to be sick again.
When I stand back up, Ciarán’s draped someone's jacket over Cavin's chest. He's still shaking, teeth chattering now.
“He's in shock,” I say. “We need to keep him warm.”
We're not done.
For once in my life, I’m grateful that the many trips with Bridget to the hospital have taught me a thing or two.
I check his pupils again, clean the smaller cuts on his face and hands. He needs a CAT scan and X-rays and proper care.
I think to myself… of all the fucking things in the world, he's going to end up at the same hospital as my sister.
But I already suspect he won't go, that he’d rather die on this couch than answer the questions that come with walking into an emergency room like this.
So I do what I can with what I have.
“You saved me,” he says quietly, catching my hands.
“You'd have done the same.”
“Course I would.” His good hand comes up, cups my face.
And I burst into tears.
“Oh, Cavin.” I collapse against him, careful of his injuries.
“Shh,” he says, holding me against his bloody, sweaty chest. “I know, love. I know.”
“Good. Then live. Don't die, okay?”
Declan clears his throat from somewhere near the door. “I'll give you two a minute. You alright?”
“Alright,” I whisper.
The door clicks shut. We're alone in the wreckage—blood on the floor, torn gauze and scattered supplies everywhere.
“Fuck,” Cavin mutters.
His forehead is still pressed to mine, and I can feel his breath, shallow and uneven.
“You could have got yourself killed, Erin. The gun.” His voice cracks. “You could have—it could have gone off while you were running. If someone had grabbed you, if that shot had gone wide?—”
“It didn't.”
“You don't know?—”
His good hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my sticky hair. “Don't ever fucking do that again.”
