And now, he might die before we’d had a chance to figure out what it meant.
My head jerked when the double doors swung open.
Callen jumped to his feet as the surgeon strode toward us. Her expression was guarded, unreadable.
“Mr. Cavendish?”
“Yes,” Callen answered, standing to approach her.
“You hold Lasting Power of Attorney for Mr. Lockhart’s health decisions.”
“I do.”
Oliver and I had risen too, flanking Callen on either side. The surgeon’s gaze swept over us, assessing.
“They’re family,” Callen stated more than said.
The surgeon nodded once, then turned her attention to him. “Mr. Lockhart made it through surgery. The bullet entered the upper left chest and exited through the posterior deltoid. We’ve repaired the damage to the surrounding tissue and controlled the internal bleeding.”
Callen’s shoulders dropped a fraction. Beside me, Oliver made a sound—half gasp, half sob.
But the surgeon wasn’t finished.
“However.” She paused, and my stomach clenched. “He lost a significant amount of blood before arriving at hospital, and his body went into shock during the procedure. The next twenty-four to forty-eight hours will be critical. We’re monitoring him closely for signs of infection and secondary complications.”
“What are his chances?” Callen asked. His voice was steady, but the tension in his jaw and the way his hands had curled into fists at his sides communicated far more than his words alone.
“I can’t make promises. He’s strong—his heart never stopped during surgery, which is a good sign. But the next two days will tell us more than I can right now.” She studied Callen’s face. “He fought hard. That matters.”
“When can we see him?”
“He’s being transferred to intensive care now. You can see him once he’s settled, but only briefly. He needs rest.” She gave us a room number, then walked away. Her attention had already shifted to the next crisis.
He fought hard.The words echoed in my head. Of course he had. Kiernan Lockhart had never surrendered to anything in his life. He’d fought his way through operations that should have killed him, fought past the guiltthat had nearly broken him after the death of a woman who’d mattered to him, fought to keep everyone at arm’s length because he believed his love was dangerous.
Now, he was fighting to stay alive. And all we could do was wait to find out if fighting would be enough.
Callen stood motionless, staring at the doors she’d disappeared through. His expression hadn’t changed, but his posture had shifted. The rigid control was cracking at the edges.
“Callen.” I touched his arm.
He flinched like I’d burned him. Then he drew a breath, and the mask slid back into place.
“ICU,” he said. “Let’s go.”
I caught Oliver’s arm before he followed. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, the gash on his temple looked worse than it had in the basement—swollen and crusted with dried blood where James had struck him. He’d only been cleared from the doctor’s restrictions a week before all this.
“You need to get that looked at.”
“I’m fine.”
“You were hit in the head. You’re not fine until a doctor says you are.”
Callen glanced back, took one look at Oliver’s head, and nodded. “She’s right. Get cleared. We’ll be in the ICU.”
Oliver opened his mouth to argue, but I was flagging down a passing nurse. Ten minutes later, he rejoined us in the corridor outside Kiernan’s room, a small plaster on his temple and irritation in his expression.
“No signs of concussion,” he said before I could ask. “Happy?”
