He looked like he wanted to move. To step in. To help. But he didn’t.
Brandi’s gaze lingered on Tool for a second longer than she meant it to. He didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. Just stood there, crossing his arms over his chest like he was guarding himself instead of her.
Quinn touched her shoulder gently. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
“I can do it myself,” Brandi said, though her voice lacked conviction.
“We know you can,” Echo replied, stepping in on the other side of her, “but you don’t have to.”
They flanked her like bookends—solid, steady, impossible to argue with. Brandi didn’t resist when they guided her toward the small bathroom tucked behind a half-closed door.
Echo flicked on the light, already setting out the clean pajamas she’d brought: soft cotton, worn in the way comfort clothes should be.
Quinn helped her ease out of the dirty clothes from the night before, careful of the bruises mottling her ribs and the thick white bandage around her wrist.
“You’ve got half the damn hospital trying not to stare,” she muttered.
“Why?” Brandi asked.
“You’ve got a room full of hot men.”
“Oh,” she said, struggling to stay upright.
“Let us help before you end up passing out on the tile,” Echo told her.
Brandi didn’t answer, just nodded once.
Warm water flowed into the sink. Echo found a clean washcloth and handed it over, but didn’t leave the room. She stayed close—there but not smothering—just in case Brandi’s knees buckled or her stubbornness ran out before her strength did.
It didn’t take long. They helped her into the pajamas—soft pants and a long-sleeved shirt that hung loosely over her injuries. Something about the feel of clean clothes made Brandi want to cry, but she swallowed it down.
Back in the room, Sloan and Bishop were still murmuring over the chart. Layla had taken over Brandi’s bed, lounging with her boots crossed and sipping from her Solo cup like it was champagne.
“Get up, Layla,” Quinn snapped at her sister, shoving her boots off the bed.
Glancing around, she looked for Angel. When she spotted him, all the brother did was shrug. “Get off the damn bed!!” she snapped at her sister, this time making it clear she was pissed.
“I’m getting up. If I knew the weekend was going to be this boring, I’d have stayed home.”
“Why didn’t you stay home, Layla?” Quinn asked, turning on her sister. “Tell me why Pappa sent you to Lampsing. What did you do this time –or who should I ask whom?”
Quinn hated to have a knockdown, drag out with her sister in Brandi’s hospital room, but she was done. “You need to go downstairs and wait in the lobby until we leave.”
“Whatever,” Layla grumbled flipping off Quinn.
When Layla moved from Quinn’s sight, she helped Brandi sit on the edge of the bed. Echo pulled the blankets down, fluffed the pillows.
“We got you,” Quinn said quietly.
Brandi didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. She let them guide her back under the covers, the cool sheets brushing her skin like a second chance.
And Tool. He remained against the wall, silent, unreadable. Still, she felt the weight ofhissilence more than anything else in the room.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Tool sat in a corner chair,shoulders hunched forward, the TV casting flickers of blue and gray across his face. Some mindless crime show played above him, but he wasn’t watching. Couldn’t. Not with Brandi just down the hall, laid up in a hospital bed, her skin probably too pale under those fluorescent lights.
He rubbed his hands together, calloused palms scraping against each other. Every part of him wanted to be in that room. To see her. To talk to her. Tojust be there. But the brothers were around, and it wasn’t time yet. Not with eyes watching, not when she deserved more than a rushed check-in or half-hearted words. So he waited.
