“Hold on,” I tell her, rising to my feet. “You’re not allowed to leave me too.”
She’s far too light, her skin fever-hot against my arm. Her head lolls against my shoulder, breath shallow and uneven.
“Hold on, Elizabeth,” I murmur, already moving toward the door. “Just hold on.”
Rosa gasps when she sees us in the hallway, her hand flying to her mouth.
“Get towels. Boil water,” I order. “And tell Cesaro I want Dr. Lars here ten minutes ago.”
“Yes, sir!”
Every second stretches into agony as I carry her to my room. Her fingers twitch against my shirt, leaving faint smudges of blood on the white fabric.
When we reach my room, I kick the door open and lower her onto my bed. My bed. The thought barely registers. All that matters is keeping her breathing.
Her eyes flutter again, unfocused. “Lorenzo…”
“I’m here.” I brush a damp strand of hair from her forehead, my thumb tracing the edge of her cheek. “You’re safe. Just stay awake for me.”
She tries to smile. “Bossy.”
The word breaks something in me.
“Always,” I whisper.
“Sienna,” she starts. “Sienna said…”
Her eyes close again, her breathing slowing. Panic claws at my throat. I rip open the first-aid drawer, pulling out antiseptic, gauze, anything to keep her stable until help arrives.
By the time Dr. Lars bursts through the door with Cesaro, my hands are slick with blood.
The doctor stops short, taking in the scene. Me kneeling beside the bed and Elizabeth pale and still against my sheets.
“What happened?” he demands, setting down his case.
“Her gunshot wound is infected.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean. “She’s burning up.”
Lars nods briskly and motions to Rosa. “Hot compresses. I need saline, and—” He pauses. “You should step out of the room, Mr. Conti.”
“I’ll stay,” I say.
The doctor looks up sharply. “It’s better if you wait outside.”
I meet his gaze. “I said I’ll stay.”
The words leave no room for argument. The air in the room shifts. Cesaro, still in the doorway, doesn’t move. Rosa doesn’t even breathe.
The doctor nods once and returns to his work.
He cleans the wound quickly, efficiently. But it’s brutal to watch. Every touch of gauze makes Elizabeth flinch, her face twisting with pain even in unconsciousness.
“Easy,” I murmur under my breath, as if the sound alone could shield her from it.
When she stirs, a soft sound breaks from her throat—half gasp, half sob. My chest tightens. Before I can think better of it, I reach for her hand.
Her skin is damp and fever-warm. She grips my fingers weakly, like her body knows me even if her mind doesn’t. That small, desperate pressure hits harder than any bullet ever could.
The doctor glances up, eyes flicking between us, but he’s smart enough not to say a word.
