I kiss her head.
“You’re better than my imagination.”
“Please, God, don’t leave me,” I whisper. “Don’t leave me, Ella.”
I leave the car running at the front of the ER entrance. With Ella in my arms, I call out for help, and so does Z. Nurses rush toward us, and she’s taken from me.
Out of my arms.
To people who will save her.
People who have to save her.
“This one doesn’t have a pulse!” someone who is working on Monty calls out. Instructions are bellowed across the frantic ER, and my back hits the wall as I stare at Ella.
Someone is talking to me.
“Are you her partner?”
Yes.
“She needs surgery, do you?—”
Do whatever you have to.
My hands and clothes are soaked in Ella’s blood, and I should’ve known it would end like this.
This is what happens in my world.
You fight, or you die.
Ella might do both.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, smelling her blood, and hating myself.
Hating myself for holding onto her when I should have let go.
Hating myself for putting her in this position.
Hating myself for loving her when it always leads to this.
“Where is she?” Guy’s voice echoes down the hall, his demands making me lift my head. Z stands, too. I hadn’t even noticed being moved into a waiting room.
“She’s in surgery,” I say, my voice raw.
He stares at me, breathing fast, his eyes wide with panic. “What did he do to her?”
The words break me. “Stabbed her.”
“Oh God.” He turns his back to me as he runs his fingers through his hair. Guilt pours through me, because this is my fault. He said I wasn’t good enough for her, and he was right. I should have left her the fuck alone.
“Are you Ella Gibson’s family?” a doctor asks from the doorway. He glances between us all, but Guy reaches him first.
“I’m her father. What’s happening?”
“We should sit down.”
“I’m not fucking sitting down; tell me about my daughter!”
