Maverick presses a hand over Asher’s ribs, and Asher groans, head tilting toward the sound. I swallow hard.
“Shit,” Mav mutters. “I need to check on the teams, see if we lost anyone else.”
“Wait—”
“I’ll be back,” he snaps. “Don’t let him die, Vi.”
And then he’s gone, but not before hesitating for half a second. His jaw tight, his eyes flicker with something I almost miss—fear. And then, without another word, he disappears down the hall, leaving me alone with Asher, and the sickening scent of blood.
I exhale sharply, shoving my hair out of my face. “Asshole,” I mutter. “Like I’d just let you bleed out, you dramatic bastard.”
But Asher doesn’t answer. His eyes are half-lidded, his breath shallow.
I hesitate for a split second before bolting toward the kitchen, yanking open drawers until I find the first aid kit. Fumbling through it with shaking hands until I find the scissors. I rush back and cut through his ruined shirt. The wound is brutal—a gunshot, high on his ribs. Blood seeps steadily from the hole, sluggish but unrelenting. I grab a towel, press it hard against his side, and he makes a pained noise in the back of his throat.
I flinch but don’t stop. “You’re fine,” I lie, applying more pressure. “You’ve had worse.”
His fingers twitch against the sheets. “Vi…”
My chest squeezes. His voice is raw, barely there.
His eyelids flutter, but he doesn’t open them.
I shake my head, cursing under my breath. “Stay with me, Redmont. Don’t you dare fucking die on me.”
I grab the bottle of vodka from his nightstand—the same one he drinks from after long nights at work—and wrench off the cap. It’s not rubbing alcohol, but it’s going to have to work. This is going to hurt.
“Sorry in advance,” I mutter, and pour it over the wound.
Asher convulses, a strangled groan tearing from his throat. His hand shoots up, seizing my throat in a vice grip. I go rigid, my pulse hammering beneath his trembling fingers. But the pressure fades almost as quickly as it came—his grip slackens, and his hand slipping away as his body sags, drained of strength.
My stomach drops. “No, no, no—don’t check out on me now.” My fingers tighten on his shoulders, shaking him harder than before. “Asher, wake the fuck up!” My voice cracks, fear clawing at my throat. He doesn’t move. My breath stutters, panic pressing in. I press my hand to his cheek, his skin too damn cold. “Stay with me, damn it.”
I slap his cheek lightly. His eyes flicker open just enough for me to catch a glimpse of something else—
Pain? Confusion?
"Serafina?" the name barely leaves his lips, hoarse and fragile, before his head tilts back. "Please don't leave me here..." he hisses, his voice breaking on the words.
And then the darkness drags him under again.
Serafina? Who the hell is Serafina?
Not now, Vi. Focus.
"I am not going anywhere," I whisper, more to myself than to him, my voice shaking with a conviction I barely feel. My throat tightens. I press my hands against his wound, harder this time.
The minutes drag. Asher slips in and out of consciousness, his breathing ragged and shallow, and his skin too damn cold. Every time his eyes roll back, I shake him, call his name, and curse at him—anything to keep him here.
And then, finally, footsteps thunder down the hall.
Of course, because apparently, everyone has the secret code to the elevator that keeps me trapped here, like a goddamn caged bird.
I sag in relief as the doctor pushes past me, his bag already open. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out everything but the sharp edge of my own breath. The doctor takes one look at Asher and mutters something under his breath, low and unreadable, before getting to work. My hands shake as I press them into my lap, fingers curled so tightly they ache.
The next few minutes stretch into eternity. The room is thick with the metallic scent of blood, and the sharp bite of antiseptic. The doctor’s hands move with swift efficiency—probing, extracting, and stitching—then he reaches into his bag, pulling out an IV kit.
"He’s lost too much blood," the doctor mutters. "He needs fluids, now." He ties off Asher’s arm, finds a vein, and inserts the needle with practiced ease.
