"I'll stay with Marzena," Cas calls out, his voice carrying across the compound.
I pause, turning slightly. My mother is still inside, restrained now by Cas's men. Part of me wants to go back in there, wants to make her suffer the way she made Roxanne suffer. But first, Roxanne needs to be safe. She needs to be in our bed, being tended to by someone who actually knows what they're doing. Then I can let loose every demon clawing at my sanity.
"I'll be back once she's stable." My voice sounds hollow to my own ears. "Berna?"
Questions pile up in my throat. Rage, frustration, the need to make someone pay for every second I watched them hurt her. Where's my sister? Is she safe? Did Marzena hurt her too?
"She's secure," Cas says, and something in his tone tells me there's more to that story.
That's all I get, but it's enough. I'll get details later. Right now, Roxanne is all that matters.
I don't know how Cas pulled together this small army on such short notice, but I'm damn grateful. Marzena had fifteen men guarding that hangar. We were outnumbered, outgunned, and running out of time. Without Cas, we'd both be dead.
Each step toward the SUV feels like dragging fifty pounds of dead weight. My vision blurs at the edges, whether from pain or blood loss I can't tell. But once I'm in the backseat with Roxanne cradled against me and Roman floors it, nothing else registers. Not the pain, not the exhaustion, not the dozen ways this could have ended worse.
I can still see her face when she learned about Marco. The exact moment understanding dawned in her eyes. The betrayal, the disappointment cutting deep, slicing through whatever trust we'd built. The thought that everything we've built could crumble, that she might never forgive me for keeping that secret, turns my chest to stone.
"She'll pull through," Roman says, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. But worry lines his face, creases his forehead. He's seen enough injuries to know how bad this is.
She looks like hell. The shoulder wound bled too much, soaking through her dress and creating a dark stain that keeps spreading. That gash on her forehead from smashing into the car window during the abduction, Christ knows what damage that caused. Concussion at minimum. And her hands.
Her hands are the worst. Two nails completely gone, the nail beds raw and bleeding. I wrapped them as best I could withstrips torn from my own shirt, but it's not enough. Nothing feels like enough.
"Faster," I growl at Roman even though he's already pushing eighty on roads that weren't designed for it.
Roxanne stirs against me, a small sound of pain escaping her lips. Her eyes flutter but don't open.
"Shh, I've got you," I murmur, pressing my lips to her temple. "We're almost home, baby. Just hold on a little longer."
I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from roaring, tasting blood. The pain helps, gives me something to focus on besides the dead weight of Roxanne in my arms and the terror clawing at my throat.
The SUV barely stops before I'm out, wrenching the door open with my free hand. Roxanne stays cradled against my chest, her head lolling against my shoulder. I take the stairs two at a time despite the blood trail I'm leaving from my own wounds, despite the way my injured leg threatens to buckle with each step. The metal is still embedded in my thigh, grinding against bone, but I don't give a damn.
"Mr. Kaminski, let me check your leg first." The on-call doctor meets me at the top of the stairs, reaching for my arm. "You're bleeding heavily, and I need to—"
"IF YOU EVER THINK OF TREATING MY INJURIES BEFORE MY WIFE'S AGAIN, YOU'D BETTER LEARN SELF-SURGERY." I'm in his face before he can finish, close enough that he flinches backward. Close enough that he can see exactly how serious I am. "BECAUSE I'LL RIP OUT EVERY ORGAN WITH MY BARE HANDS AND FEED THEM TO YOU WHILE YOU WATCH."
His face goes pale, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. He practically sprints toward the bedroom where I'm headed, fumbling with his medical bag.
I kick the door open and lay Roxanne on our bed as gently as my shaking hands allow. Her skin is too pale, lips tinged with blue. The bandages I wrapped around her hands are already soaked through with blood.
Tirana materializes beside the doctor, all business, her face a mask of professional calm. "Blood type?"
"O positive." My voice sounds hollow to my own ears.
"I'll grab a unit." She's already halfway down the hall before I can respond, her footsteps quick and purposeful on the hardwood.
We keep a full surgical setup in the west wing. Three units of every blood type, sterile equipment, enough medications to stock a small hospital. Because hospitals mean questions, police reports, nosy social workers, complications we can't afford. So we stay prepared. Always prepared.
While the doctor cleans and bandages her wounds, I stand at the foot of the bed and memorize every mark. Every cut that mars her perfect skin. Every bruise blooming purple and yellow. Every wince that crosses her face, even unconscious. The gash on her shoulder where Marzena carved into her. The swelling around her missing nails. The cut on her forehead.
Those exact spots, that's where I'll start with Marzena. Skin first, then tissue, layer by layer. I'll make her feel everything she did to Roxanne multiplied by a thousand. And I'll take my time.
The doctor works efficiently, his earlier fear translating into focused precision. He irrigates the shoulder wound, applies antibacterial solution that makes Roxanne's face contort even in unconsciousness. Stitches the gash closed with neat, tinysutures. Wraps her hands in clean gauze after treating the exposed nail beds. Checks her pupils for signs of concussion.
Only after Roxanne's bandaged and hooked up to the IV, after the blood starts flowing into her veins and brings color back to her cheeks, do I let the doctor near me.
I sink into the chair beside the bed, never taking my eyes off her. The doctor kneels, assessing the metal in my leg with gentle probes that send white-hot pain shooting up my spine.
