Dr. Samuelson grips my forearm and tries to push me back when I make another attempt to get to the door. “As soon as I know, I’ll let you know. Now, if you could please take a seat and let me?—”
“I appreciate you’re just doing your job. I really do. But if you touch him again, I’m going to break your fucking hand in a dozen very painful places.”
Syn stands in the doorway, one hand pressed over her very pregnant belly and murderous intent firing behind her pale-blue eyes.
“I beg your pardon?”
Syn steps inside the room and quietly closes the door behind her. “Please remove your hand from my husband before you lose it,” she threatens politely.
Husband.
I gawk at her, but her angry glare is aimed at the petite brunette dressed in blue doctor’s scrubs.
“Your husband has lacerations that need tending to.”
“He said he was fine.”
“You’re not a doctor. You cannot make that determination.”
“Do not make me repeat myself.”
Nine months pregnant, and Syn is still a beautiful force to be reckoned with.
Dr. Samuelson’s dark-brown eyes widen with recognition. She takes a step back and bows her head. “My apologies, ma’am. Please forgive me.”
Syn glances at me and rolls her eyes. She hates it when members of the Society kowtow in her presence. She may have stepped away from the Council, but everyone in our circle—hell, in the entire town of Darlington and at DF—knows who she is. What she is.
Without another word, the doctor slinks out of the examination room.
Syn gives me a thorough once-over. “Sit.”
I don’t argue. My ass obediently hits the thin padding of the hospital bed. “I thought we were divorced.”
She gathers some supplies from the drawers and sets them down next to me. “I never tore up that stupid contract, so technically, we’re still”—she rips open an alcohol wipe— “whatever the hell we are. Stop smiling. I’m pissed as hell right now and likely to stab you with the blunt end of the medical scissors.”
I wipe the grin from my face. “Have you seen him?”
She dabs at a cut above my eyebrow. “They called in a plastic surgeon to stitch up the gash on his head so he wouldn’t have a scar.” Her gorgeous eyes lift, and tears spill over like a waterfall of heartbreak. Seeing them almost destroys me. “Did you really have to administer CPR? Did he die?”
I take her face, needing to hold her. “He’s okay, Songbird. He’s strong. And stubborn, like someone else I know.”
Her hands join mine, our fingers threading. She breathes in deeply and exhales slowly. “Thank you for saving him.”
“He’s my brother.” It’s as simple, and as complicated, as that.
“And you’re my hero.” With deliberate tenderness, she presses her lips to my cheek. I’ve never felt anything more wonderful in my life. “Let’s clean these cuts, so they won’t get infected. What happened to your shirt?” she asks, ripping paper towels from the dispenser and wetting them under the faucet.
I peer down at myself. I completely forgot about that, and no one offered me scrubs or anything when I was brought to the room.
“Tristan,” is all I say.
Wringing out the excess water from the paper towels, Syn looks over her shoulder. “I need to know what happened.”
“I’m not sure yet.”
Starting with my face, she gently wipes away the caked-on blood. “What’s your first thought?”
“Ambush.”
