“What did Typhon want?” Callen asked, settling into his corner.
“To make sure Kiernan wasn’t dead,” I said. “And to recruit us for Unit 23.”
Callen’s eyebrow rose. “Both of you?”
“Apparently.”
“Interesting.” He opened his laptop again. “He doesn’t do that often. He must actually like the bastard.”
“Don’t they work together?”
“Kiernan works for him. That’s different.” Callen’s fingers moved over the keyboard. “Typhon doesn’t make hospital visits for employees. He makes them for family.”
Family.I thought about the way Typhon had looked at Kiernan with a combination of exasperation, relief, andaffection. And how Callen had sat in this room for three days, like us, refusing to leave. The way Gus and Rafe had shown up at zero five hundred, speaking in low voices, their faces tight with worry.
Kiernan had spent years convincing himself he was alone. That his intensity made him dangerous, that caring about him was a death sentence, that everyone who got close would end up destroyed.
He was wrong.
The afternoon stretched into evening.Ophelia dozed in the window seat again. Callen left to make phone calls—something about the Thorned Thistle and security protocols that needed to be updated. I sat beside Kiernan’s bed and watched him sleep.
Real sleep this time. Not the guarded rest of a man who couldn’t stop monitoring his surroundings, but the deep unconsciousness of a body demanding recovery.
I thought about the zip ties cutting into my wrists. James’ voice, going on about betrayal and justice and the woman he and Kiernan had loved. The gun, heavy and certain in his hand.
I’d been trained to resist interrogation and compartmentalize fear, to stay calm under pressure and wait foran opening. None of that had prepared me for the horror of watching someone I cared deeply for step in front of a bullet.
Kiernan’s name was muffled as I screamed it through the gag. Ophelia had been sobbing beside me, both of us fighting against restraints we couldn’t break. And Kiernan had lain there, motionless, while his blood spread across the concrete.
I blinked hard and forced myself back to the present. To Kiernan’s chest, rising and falling.
He was still here. That was what mattered.
“You’re thinking too loud.”
I startled. His eyes were open, watching me.
“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.” He shifted against the pillows and winced. “What time is it?”
“Just after twenty-one hundred. Callen’s making calls. Phee’s asleep.”
He turned his head to look at Ophelia, and his expression softened.
“The doctor came by while you were out,” I said. “She said you can be discharged tomorrow if someone can manage your care.”
“Good.”
“We’re coming with you.”
His expression hardened. “Oliver?—”
“This isn’t a negotiation. You need care. We’re providing it.”
“Millie can?—”
“No.” I leaned forward. “We almost lost you. We sat in that waiting room for six hours, not knowing if you were going to live or die. We’re not leaving you with your housekeeper and going back to London like none of this happened.”
