Rafe appeared at my shoulder as they loaded Kiernan onto the stretcher. His hand gripped my arm, and I realized only then that I was swaying.
“We’ll handle the scene. Go with him.”
“He’s strong,” Callen added. “Stubborn bastard won’t go easy.”
I nodded because I didn’t trust my voice.
They were lifting the stretcher when Kiernan’s eyes opened. Only a sliver—unfocused and glassy—but open.His lips parted. No sound came out at first. Just the shape of a word his body was too weak to form.
I pushed forward and stood beside the stretcher. “Kiernan. I’m here. We’re both here.”
His eyes tracked toward my voice. Recognition flickered, dim but present. His mouth opened again.
“You’re both safe?” The words were barely a whisper.
My knees nearly buckled, and I grabbed the stretcher rail to stay upright.
His pulse was dropping by the second, and his first conscious thought was to ask if we were safe.
Not “what happened.” Not “am I dying.” Not “where am I” or “help me” or any of the things a man with a bullet wound should be saying.
You’re both safe?
That was Kiernan. That was who he was at his core—a man who would bleed out on a basement floor and use his last conscious breath to make sure we were unharmed.
The fury hit me so hard I couldn’t breathe. It tangled with love and terror until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the others began.
“You bastard.” The words scraped out of me. “You took a bullet for us, and you’re asking if we’re safe?”
Ophelia appeared at my shoulder. Tears streaked her face, but her voice was steady. “We’re fine. You’re the one who’s hurt.”
“Had to.” His eyes drifted closed. “Protect…”
“No.” I stayed by the stretcher as the paramedics headed toward the stairs. “You don’t get to sacrifice yourself and leave us. That’s not protecting us. That’s destroying us.”
His face had gone slack. I wasn’t certain he’d heard me.
Then his fingers twitched. The smallest movement, barely visible—him trying to reach for us even now.
Ophelia and I held hands as we followed the stretcher up the stairs, out of the basement, and into the cold night air, where the ambulance waited.
“We’re coming with him,” Ophelia said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
The paramedic glanced at us—at the blood on our clothes, the desperation in our faces—and nodded. “Family?”
“Yes.” The word was instant. “We’re his family.”
The ambulance interior was bright and sterile. Kiernan lay on the gurney between us with an oxygen mask over his face.
The paramedic adjusted the IV drip, checked the pressure dressing, and called out numbers to her partner in the driver’s seat. Systolic. Diastolic. Words that meant everything and nothing.
Ophelia held his hand. Her grip was fierce enough to anchor him to life by determination alone.
I’d been shot at. Beaten. Almost died in an op in Brodick Castle. Would have if Kiernan and Ophelia hadn’t found me. Saved me.
None of it compared to this—the dread of watching Kiernan breathe and wondering if each exhale would be his last.
In the field, there was always an enemy. A target. A mission objective. My training gave me tools to survive. But there was no enemy here. No target except death itself, and I couldn’t fight that. I couldn’t shoot it or outrun it or negotiate with it. I could only sit here and hope.
