She caught it, held it to herself, choking off more tears. “I thought you were dying.”
“I thought I was dying too,” he said, his words slurred, then he angled his head and squinted at her hard. “Were you crying? Over me?”
Heat flushed her cheeks, but she tried to shrug away the embarrassment by rolling her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt so bad?”
“Because he’s a thickheaded oaf!”
Surprised at the intruding voice, Leighton whirled, her mind amped and expecting Maaz’s men, but instead found a large man standing there. A large man stood there. “Who?—”
“Dante?” Owen’s tone held the very shock Leighton felt. “What’re you doing here?”
“Doing what you couldn’t, it seems.” The tall black man ambled over and let his gaze take in Owen’s jagged, raw flesh. “Ouch, guess we can’t call you PrettyBoy anymore.”
“Nobody called me that,” Owen ground out, grimacing beneath the doctor’s ministrations.
“Bro’s got a point,” said another black man who stepped in behind Dante. “Def not PrettyBoy anymore.” His dark eyes slid to Leighton. “But chicks dig scars, don’t they?”
Outrage coursed through Leighton that they were mocking him. “He nearly died!”
“But he’s a Scion—knows better than to die on an op.” Dante planted a hand on the examination table next to Owen’s shoulder and leaned down.
“Dude,” Owen said, angling away. “Get off me, man.”
When the words slurred into the stale air, Dante sniffed. “He’s been doped.”
“What’s going on?” Leighton asked, frowning at the two men who clearly knew Owen. Were they from the team that wanted to rescue her? “Who are you?”
“You should all not be here,” Dr. Abeni complained as he finished the stitching and set down his tools on a metal tray.
“That’s the plan—to not be here,” Dante said, glancing up at Leighton. “I’m Dante, that’s Luther.” His attention shifted to Apollo. “Time to exfil, Scar.”
“I don’t need your help, traitor.” Looking drunk, Owen strained to sit up and nearly went off the side of the table.
“Whoa, wait!” Leighton caught his arm, bracing him as Dante prevented him from hitting the floor. Why had Owen called him a traitor? Should she be worried?
“No!” the doctor barked, straightening. “He is drugged, still weak.”
Luther grabbed a scrub top from the side and edged toward Leighton. “Slide over, Princess.” He didn’t wait for her to comply and went to work threading the scrub over Owen’s head. “What’d you give him, Doc? What’s in the IV?”
Dr. Abeni’s expression tightened. “I insist you leave. At once.”
“That’s the plan,” Dante said. “I know this seems sus to you, but these two are in a lot of danger, and we need to get them out of here before trouble finds them. Tracking?”
“He’s being nice,” Luther said, all business. “I’m not—you can be a part of the solution or you can be unconscious.”
“Do not threaten me!” Dr. Abeni spat.
This whole situation unsettled Leighton, so she could well imagine how the doctor felt. But these men were Omen. So, she’d trust that because they’re the ones who brought Owen to her. “I’m sorry—I know these men must seem quite rude, but we really do need to leave. I think someone is trying to kill us.”
Dr. Abeni considered her, then the men, his expression waxing from angry to uncertain. “You are sure you know these men?”
“No, I don’t,” Leighton admitted, then indicated to Owen. “But he does. He works with them.”
“Not quite,” Owen slurred and shoved Dante’s touch away. “Scions don’t like Omen.”
“Young and immature,” Luther said as he urged Owen to an upright position, bracing him on either side.
“He trusts them, so I do,” Leighton focused on the Kenyan doctor. “Can you tell us what drugs you’ve given him?”
