I should feel guilt over that. Maybe I do. But what hits harder is pride. That she didn’t freeze. That she choseme. That she became a version of herself no one can ever take back.
It doesn’t feel like luck.
Dr. Vera leans over me, sleeves rolled, gloves stained, eyes sharp enough to cut through morphine fog. She’s been patching up men like me for years—too calm to be human, too steady to be afraid.
“You’ll live,” she says, tightening the last strip of tape across my chest. “Assuming you stop tearing the stitches open every time you breathe like a bull.”
“How’s Mary?”
The pause is small but sharp. “She’s still not awake.” Her tone stays even, clinical. “Vitals are unstable, but holding.”
Something claws up the back of my throat. “Was she shot?”
“No.”
Just that—flat, final.
She presses gauze against my wound, digs a thumb in to check the seal. It burns like fire under my ribs, but I don’t flinch. Pain’s familiar. Expected.
I watch her face instead. No expression, just focus. She tapes the bandage down, smooth and precise.
“She’s stronger than she looks.” Dr. Vera’s gaze flicks toward the glass partition dividing my room from hers. “But she’s fighting more than blood loss.”
I catch her wrist before she steps back. “What do you mean?”
She looks me dead in the eye. For a second, something flickers there—hesitation, maybe pity—but it’s gone before I can name it.
“The bloodwork came back.” A beat. “She’s pregnant.”
The word hits harder than the bullets.
Pregnant.
For a moment, I’m not in this room. I’m back in that freight yard, watching her kneel in the gravel with my blood on her hands. And now—hers.
I let go of the doctor’s wrist.
She straightens, adjusts her gloves, and reaches for a tray. The smell of antiseptic cuts through the air. She peels back the gauzeon my chest and presses something cold into the wound. It stings deep.
I don’t move. She notices.
“She’s fighting for the little one,” she says quietly. “That’s why she’s still under. Her body’s choosing where to spend its strength.”
I push up an inch, ribs protesting. “What… the fuck do you mean?”
Vera shoves me back down with one hand on my shoulder. “Stay down, Reaper. You tear that line again, and I’ll sedate you myself.”
“Why isn’t she awake?”
“She’s not ready,” she says simply. “Her blood pressure dropped too fast. We had to keep her under. The trauma caused a uterine bleed—stress, shock, adrenaline. The fetus is holding, but barely. If she wakes too soon, her body might give up.”
A curse grinds out of me as I grab the bedrail and force myself up again, ignoring the fire tearing through my chest.
“She’s fighting for her life, and you expect me to just fucking lie here?”
Vera doesn’t flinch. She’s seen men die screaming and still kept her pulse steady.
“Yes,” she says flatly. “Because if you don’t, you’ll end up next to her, and I don’t have time to dig two graves.”
