My eyelids flutter. I try to move. I can’t.
The last thing I see is the smear of their patches walking away—bright against the dark—before the world goes black.
Pain drags me back first. It’s not sharp anymore—too deep for that. It’s heavy, wet, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. I take in a deep breath and regret it immediately. My ribs scream. My head throbs like someone rang a bell inside my skull and forgot to stop.
I blink up at the Arkansas sky, stars smeared and doubled. For a second, I don’t know where I am. Then memory slams in.
The diner. The knife. The voice—leave him here to bleed out.
“Yeah,” I mutter hoarsely to the emptiness around me. “Fuck you too.”
My side is soaked. I don’t need to look to know it’s bad. Warmth spreads every time my heart beats, and that’s the problem—too much warmth. Too much blood leaving places it should stay.
I press a hand to the wound and hiss. My fingers come away slick. Black dots dance at the edge of my vision.
Stitches. I need stitches. And I need them fast.
Lying here isn’t an option. Neither is dying in a parking lot. I roll onto my knees, the movement stealing my breath, and crawl the rest of the way to my bike.
Every inch hurts.
I haul myself upright, using the handlebars like a crutch, forehead resting against the tank while the world steadies. My hands are shaking now. That’s new. Fuck.
“Come on,” I growl at my body. “Don’t quit on me now.”
I swing a leg over the seat with a sound that’s halfway between a curse and a groan, then fire the engine. The vibration rattles straight through my bones. I almost black out before I get moving.
The hospital lights cut through the dark a few minutes later, bright and unforgiving. I slow as I pull into the lot, logic fighting instinct. I park and slide off my bike, but leaning into it, praying I got the kickstand all the way down to hold her in place.
I don’t go inside.
Inside means forms. Questions. Security. Police. Cameras. A whole trail of attention I can’t afford—not bleeding like this, not alone, not in a state that isn’t mine.
I circle once, then park near employee parking and kill the engine. My pulse pounds loud in my ears. I lean forward, breathing shallow, waiting for the spinning to stop. The sun is coming up, shift change is here. I fight to stay lucid.
Footsteps. A door opens.
I lift my head. She steps out like she’s running on fumes—scrubs wrinkled, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, bag slung over one shoulder. She looks tired in a way that’s familiar. The kind that comes from long shifts and not enough rest.
Her gaze catches on me.
On the bike. On the blood.
She freezes. “Sir?” she says carefully. “Are you?—”
I pull the gun. Her breath stutters, but she doesn’t scream. Doesn’t bolt. Just goes very still, eyes flicking from my face to the weapon and back.
“Get in your car,” I order standing upright and moving closer to her. My voice sounds rough even to me. “Drive.”
Her pulse jumps in her throat. I can see it. But her hands stay steady as she sets her bag down and reaches for her keys.
“Okay,” she says. That’s it. No hysterics. No begging.
I frown despite myself. “You always this calm when a stranger points a gun at you?”
She glances at the blood soaking my shirt. “You’re bleeding through your shirt.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
