“That is not compatible for whole blood, but we will see.” He made a final stitch, tied it off, and stepped back. “The wound is clean. I found no major damage to muscle or bone. He was lucky.”
“Lucky.” The word tasted bitter in my mouth.
“In this business, lucky means alive.” Müller wiped his hands on a towel and fixed me with those sharp eyes. “He will sleep for several hours.The blood loss was significant, but he is young and strong. He should recover.”
Should.
Not will.
My heart lurched into my throat.
“And the other one?” I asked. “The older man?”
Müller’s expression shifted—something closed off, guarded. “That one is more complicated. He has internal bleeding, broken ribs, and damage to the spleen, possibly the liver.” He shook his head. “I will do what I can, but you should prepare yourself.”
“For what?”
“For the possibility that I cannot save him.”
I sat with Thomas while Müller worked on Otto.
The room was small and sparse, with whitewashed walls, a single window covered by a heavy curtain, and medical equipment that looked older than I was. Thomas lay on the table, his shoulder bandaged, his face peaceful in a way that made my chest ache. He looked young when he slept. Younger than he had any right to look, after everything we’d been through.
I held his hand. It was cold, but I could feel his pulse beneath my fingers—steady now, much stronger than it had been in the car. The blood was doing its work. His body was healing itself, the way bodies do when given the chance.
“You scared me,” I told him, though he couldn’t hear. “You’re not allowed to do that. We have rules. You promised.”
His chest rose and fell. The IV dripped.
Somewhere in another room, I could hear Müller moving and the clink of instruments. I could also hear his voice as he talked himself through whatever he was doing.
“In case you forgot,” I continued my monologue. “Our first rule is that you don’t get to die before me. That’s always been non-negotiable. I’ve already decided that I’m going to be the one who goes first because I’m older and wiser and because I couldn’t bear to live in a world where you don’t exist.”
Thomas’s eyelids flickered.
I held my breath, but he didn’t wake.
“The second rule is that you’re not allowed to be a hero without consulting me first. This lone-wolf nonsense—taking a bullet and not even noticing—that’snotacceptable. We’re partners. We do stupid things together or not at all.”
The door opened behind me. I turned, expecting Müller, but it was Bisch.
His face was gray with exhaustion, his clothes still stiff with dried blood. Whether it was his own or Otto’s, I couldn’t tell anymore. He looked like a man who had been to war and was still waiting to find out if he’d survived.
“The Baroness,” he said. “She is asking for you.”
“How is she?”
“Awake and lucid.” He paused. “She is fragile in a way I have never seen before.”
I glanced at Thomas. He was still sleeping, still stable. I made myself let go of his hand.
“Stay with him,” I told Bisch. “If he wakes up—”
“I will find you.”
The Baroness was in the kitchen, sitting at a wooden table with a cup of tea cooling in front of her.
Someone—Bisch, probably—had helped her inside and cleaned her up as best they could. Her face was washed, the blood and grime scrubbed away, revealing the full extent of her injuries. One eye was swollen completely shut now. It was an angry purple and black. Her lip was split, and a cut above her eyebrow had been closed with a butterfly bandage.
