“No,” I snap, leaning close to his face. “Hey. Stay awake. Look at me.”
His lashes flutter as he drags in a breath. “You… safe?”
The question breaks something in me.
“Yes,” I nod, swallowing hard. “We’re safe. Julian’s safe. You made sure of that.”
His mouth twitches faintly. “Good.”
He goes slack again, consciousness slipping.
“Ryder,” I call urgently, shaking him just enough to keep him present. “You don’t get to check out now. Not after all that.”
I keep talking as I work—anything to anchor him, to anchor myself. I tell him about Julian downstairs, about Ash guarding him like a furry tank. I tell him how brave he was, how terrifying, and how I never want to see him like that again.
I don’t know if he hears me. All I know is that I can’t stop.
Through all my rambling, his phone rings. The sound is jarring and wrong in the cavernous quiet of the house. For half a second, I just stare at it where it’s fallen from his pocket, slick with blood, vibrating insistently against the stone floor.
“No, not now,” I groan, but it doesn’t stop.
Ryder stirs weakly, a low sound in his throat, his brow furrowing like the noise is dragging him back toward the surface. I snatch the phone before it can do more damage, pressing it to my ear with a hand that won’t quite stop shaking.
“Hello?” My voice comes out thin, tight.
There’s laughter on the other end. It’s so wildly out of place it almost makes me dizzy. “About time you picked up,” a man says, a thick southern drawl coming through. “Happy New Year, you grumpy bastard—“
He stops, and the silence stretches. “Wait, this isn’t Ryder.”
“No, it’s Katherine, K—Kate,” I choke, forcing the words through. “Ryder’s—“ I swallow as I have no idea how to introduce myself.
Another pause follows, and I imagine him straightening wherever he is, amusement draining away, instincts sharpening.
“Where’s my brother?” he demands.
“He’s hurt. Badly.”
I don’t bother cushioning it. The man sounds like someone who understands facts better than panic.
“How bad?”
“He was shot,” I reply. “Twice. He’s bleeding internally, I think. I’ve done what I can, but I’m not—“ My voice cracks. I swallow and keep going. “I’m not a doctor.”
Before I can finish explaining, voices bleed into the call—people talking over each other, someone asking a question I can’t make out, another voice swearing under their breath.
“Hey!” the man snaps. “Be quiet.”
The background noise doesn’t stop fast enough.
“I said quiet!” he repeats, louder this time. “Give me a second,” he mandates, then focuses back on me. “Where are you?”
“His house in the mountains,” I answer quickly. “I need to get him to a hospital,” I cry, desperation leaking into my voice now that someone else is carrying part of the weight. “I can drive. I—“
“No, you won’t,” he quickly stops me.
I blink. “What?”
“I’m assuming he didn’t shoot himself while hunting?”
