“I’m already on his list,” I fire back. “At least this way I control the terms.”
They argue over me like I’m not standing here, voices overlapping and tension crackling. I hug myself, arms tight around my chest, trying to hold myself together as their voices become shouts over the high stakes and fear.
The argument is still humming in the room, unresolved and sharp-edged, when Hawk pulls his phone from his pocket. Jagger turns away, jaw clenched, dragging a hand through his hair, knowing he’s not going to stop Hawk from the decision he’s already made.
Hawk dials, and Jagger’s expression pivots as the call connects, the shift from fury to cold control in real time. “Abrahim,” Hawk says into the phone. “It’s Hawk. We need to talk.”
There’s a pause. A longer one. Hawk exhales through his nose. “No. Not later. Now.” There’s another long pause, and his brows draw together before he snaps, “I don’t care if you’ve packed. This can’t wait.”
With my heart pounding, I step closer. Close enough to hear the muffled reply through the speaker. Abrahim’s voice is strained, accented, and edged with an urgency of its own. “I’m flying out in a few hours,” he says. “UAE. Two days. Whatever you have to say, say it now. Or we can meet when I get back.”
“No,” I whisper firmly before Hawk can answer. “It has to be in person.” He glances back at me, surprised. “It has tobe in person,” I repeat, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands.
“I don’t understand,” Abrahim spits sharply. “If you know something… if you know where my sister is… don’t make me wait.”
Jagger watches me intensely, something unreadable in his eyes as Abrahim lets out a frustrated breath. “Two days,” Abrahim says at last. “That’s the soonest I can be back.”
“Then two days,” Hawk replies. “Text me, and we’ll come to you.”
The call ends, and Hawk lowers the phone, his gaze locking onto mine. He studies me for a long moment, then nods once like he’s made up his mind about me. “We hold the line for two days.”
Two days.
And then everything is going to change.
Hospitals feel different when you enter them as a visitor instead of a provider. I’ve spent nearly a decade of my adult life moving through corridors like these with purpose. Clipboard in hand, pager buzzing, brain already ten steps ahead of whatever crisis awaited me behind the next curtain.
Today, I’m just… walking.
The fluorescent lights are harsher, somehow, and the antiseptic more intrusive as it crawls into my lungs. The beep of machines doesn’t carry the same usual comfort. Instead, they’re loud and obnoxious.
Jagger stays close, without hovering, his presence a steady heat at my side. His hand brushes mine occasionally, not quite holding it, but enough to remind me he’s there. That I’m not doing this alone.
Zahra’s room is near the end of the hall, guarded quietly by Damon. His shoulders are braced on the wall outside her door. His arms are crossed, and his posture is loose but alertin a way that I recognize instantly. Alert and standing sentry, without looking like he is. He straightens when he sees us, nodding once.
“She’s awake,” he says softly. “Pain has been rough, but the nurses say her vitals are stable.” Relief hits me so hard I have to brace myself against the wall for a second.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“I’ll be right here.” Jagger squeezes my hand before letting it slide from his as I push open the door.
Zahra looks smaller in the hospital bed than she ever has behind the nurses’ station. Small and so fragile, stripped of the competence and sharp humor she wore like armor at work. Her face is mottled, one eye swollen enough that it’s barely open. Crusted blood stains her lips where they were split. Tubing disappears beneath the blanket from the IV lines taped to her arm. The monitor at her bedside blinks steadily, its rhythm both comforting and terrifying.
When she sees me, her mouth curves into the faintest smile. “Hey,” she croaks.
“Hey, yourself,” I manage, my voice softer than I expect as my throat tightens. After moving to her side, I carefully take her hand in both of mine. Her skin is warm. The simple fact of that feels like a miracle.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it anyway.
“Like I got hit by a truck,” she mutters. “Then reversed over. Twice.”
I huff out a shaky laugh that turns into something dangerously close to a sob. I press my lips together, trying to keep my feelings contained. “Yeah,” I say hoarsely. “That tracks.” I nod, blinking hard. I try to stow my emotions away, the only way I know how. “Surgery went as well as it could. You’re going to be?—”
“I’m okay, Blake.” Her grip tightens around my fingers, knowing exactly what I’m doing. Zahra has always seen right through me. “Really. It hurts like hell, but I’m here.”
Her gaze softens, but beneath it there’s something deeper—something fractured that no scan or lab result will ever show. I recognize it instantly, because I’ve seen it far too many times in patients who survive what their bodies can recover from, but their minds don’t quite know how to carry.
“You’re probably going to need some time,” I say gently. “And support. Therapy. More than the physical.”
