I turned to Kiernan. His face was still, peaceful in a way he never was when awake. Even in sleep at Greymarch, there had been tension in the set of his jaw, the furrow between his brows. Now, there was nothing.
“You don’t get to decide you’re expendable,” I said quietly. “Not anymore.”
The monitor beeped. The IV dripped. Kiernan lay motionless.
“We didn’t come here to watch you die.” The words scraped past the tightness in my throat, and I squeezed his hand until my knuckles ached. “We’re not leaving. No matter how many times you try to push us away.”
He couldn’t hear me. The sedation had pulled him somewhere far away, beyond the reach of words or anger or desperate pleas. But I said it anyway, because I needed him to know. Because if he died without hearing it, I would never forgive myself.
“You belong to us too,” I said. “You claimed us. You made us yours. But you’re ours now, whether you like it or not.”
Oliver’s fingers laced through mine. When I looked at him, tears were tracking down his cheeks in silent streams. He didn’t wipe them away.
“He has to wake up,” he said.
“He will.”
I didn’t know if I believed it. But I said it anyway, because the alternative was unthinkable.
The hours blurred together. The nurse came to tell us our ten minutes were up, took one look at Callen’s face, and left without another word. Gus and Rafe arrived around zero five hundred. They stayed for an hour, speaking in low voices with Callen, then left with promises to return.
The nurses checked his vitals every thirty minutes. They adjusted his IV, noted readings on their tablets, and asked questions that Callen answered instantly. Was he allergic to anything? Did he have a history of blood clots? He rattled off information like he’d memorized Kiernan’s medical file years ago. He probably had.
Somewhere around twelve hundred hours, exhaustion caught up with me. My eyes burned, my muscles ached, and the adrenaline that had kept me upright since we left the basement had finally drained away. Oliver looked even worse—gray-faced, hollow-eyed, and swaying in his chair.
“Sleep,” Callen said, his voice cutting through the fog. “Both of you. There’s a sofa.”
“I’m not leaving him.” The words came out automatic.
“I’m not asking you to leave.” He nodded toward the vinyl bench beneath the window. “It’s notcomfortable, but it’s better than collapsing. I’ll wake you if anything changes.”
Oliver stood, his body stiff. “He’s right, Phee. We need to rest while we can.”
I didn’t want to let go of Kiernan’s hand. For two weeks, he’d been the one in control. He’d directed and demanded and set the terms of everything between us. I’d submitted to that control willingly—more than willingly. I’d craved it. The relief of surrendering to someone stronger, someone who knew what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to take it.
Now, he lay here, helpless, and I was the one keeping watch, all because he wouldn’t tell us what he was up against. Why he forced us to leave. His pride and his belief that he had to protect us got in the way of us being the team he wanted us to bepersonally.
That ended now.
A soft knock came at the door. A nurse stepped inside, her gaze sweeping the room before landing on Callen.
“Mr. Cavendish? There’s someone in the family waiting area asking for you.”
Callen’s brow furrowed. “Who?”
“She said her name is Isla MacLeod.”
The change in Callen was immediate. His spine went rigid, and for a fraction of a second, raw emotion flashed across his face—longing and fear and fierce denial—before his expression locked down.
“Tell her I’ll be there in a moment.”
The nurse nodded and withdrew.
Callen stood motionless for a few seconds, then walked out behind her.
I released Kiernan’s hand and crossed to the sofa. Oliver sat first, and I settled beside him. When his arm came around my shoulders, I leaned into him and closed my eyes.
Sleep didn’t come easily. My mind kept circling back to the sound of the gunshot, to Kiernan falling. But eventually, exhaustion won, and I slipped into a thin, dreamless darkness.
