Alarms start to blare. People shout. I’m jostled, rough hands moving over me. My chest. My arms. The clamor fades, replaced by the steady beat of a heart rate monitor. And a single voice I recognize. Not hers.
“Nat! Get back here! Dammit!”
I force my eyes open in time to catch a glimpse of Graham racing down the hall.
Nat’s citrus and floral scent still lingers in the room. But when I feel the smooth ridges of the sea glass heart under my fingers, I know. She’s gone.
Theclickof the door drags me from the hazy cloud I’m floating on. I refused the last dose of pain meds, but there’s still enough coursing through my system to keep me from staying awake for more than an hour at a time.
“You look like shit, Doc.”
I blink hard until Ryker McCabe’s scarred face comes into focus. I almost don’t recognize him. The bags under his eyes could hold a week’s worth of clothes. I’ve never seen the man in anything but all black, and today is no exception. It’s almost laughable. He could walk right onto the set of any action movie and fit right in. If it weren’t for the bright yellow baby sling with his three-month-old strapped to his chest. And the diaper bag slung over his shoulder.
It’s the change to his demeanor that’s truly jarring, though. He’s at peace, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before.
Wren, his wife, slips through the door behind him. “Is she still sleeping?”
“Of course. She likes it in here.” He pats the baby’s back gently, and Wren scowls.
“Well, then you’re wearing her for the rest of the day. I need some sleep once we get home.” She offers me a wan smile. “Hey, Doc. Harlow’s teething. It’s been a rough couple of weeks.”
Harlow. So that’s what they named her. Wisps of red hair peek out from under Ryker’s massive hand where he cups the back of the little girl’s head.
“So,” he says once Wren sinks into the visitor’s chair and pulls out her tablet. “Want to tell me why I had to finance a rescue operation in the middle of the fu—fudging—night for you and a woman who rabbited the first chance she got?”
In a word? No. I don’t want to tell the man a thing. But he saved my ass. I owe him my life.
“I don’t know.” At his snort, I sit up a little straighter. The chest tube catches on the hospital gown, and I hiss out a breath. “It’s…the truth.”
“Breathe, Doc.” Wren touches my arm, concern in her green eyes. “Do you need me to get a nurse?”
“Fuck, no.”
“Language,” Ryker snaps. “If I can watch mine, you can sure as shipping lanes watch yours.”
“Sure as shipping lanes?” Chuckling is a mistake. Then again, my entire life feels like a mistake right about now.
“I’m working on variations.” One corner of his mouth twitches into what might be his version of a smile. “Wren vetoed shifter though. Said it sounded too much like?—”
“I get the idea. Fine. Shipping lanes. Fudge. Gosh darn it.”
“Goldilocks.” Wren grins. “Though if we ever read her that story, she’s going to be really confused.”
Ryker scoffs. “I have better stories.”
I can’t imagine the man’s stories involve anything other than murder and mayhem, but then again, I never expected to see him with a baby in his arms either.
“Back to the matter at hand,” he says, his voice taking on the grave tone I’m used to. The one that warns he won’t accept bullshit from anyone—especially not me.
With a sigh, I turn my gaze out the window. The sun shines brightly, and a stand of pine trees sways gently in the breeze. It’s barely noon. Nat’s been gone for five hours. She could be on a plane by now. Hell, she could be in Canada. I reach under the blanket for the piece of sea glass and rub my fingers over the ridges.
“I camp up on Blakely every few weeks. Been going up there for a year or so. Last night, I was asleep in my tent when I heard gunshots. I investigated.”
“And almost got yourself killed.” Ryker shakes his head. “You’ve been out of the game too long to play the action hero, Doc.”
“I was holding my own, assho—jerk. Until the guy slammed a rock into my ribs. And I still managed to get the gun and shoot him. He must have been wearing body armor to survive two shots, center mass. There was so much blood, I was sure he was dead, so I got Nat up to her house and made sure she was okay.” I don’t tell McCabe about my leg going numb. Or how if I’d been two inches higher with my first knife strike, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. He’d probably snap at me some more, and I’m kicking my own ass hard enough as it is.
“Fine. You’re a godda—gosh-darned knight in shining armor. Who the fudge is Nat and why was this guy after her?”
