My pulse roars in my ears. “Is she alive?” I ask hoarsely, needing to hear the answer.
Reaper nods slowly. “She’s alive.”
Air rushes out of my lungs, relief flooding through me. But then he adds quietly, “She’s not awake yet.”
Twenty-Seven
Hawk
Not the soothing kind of stillness that invites peace, but a heavy silence that presses down relentlessly on my chest, making it hard to breathe. Each agonizing second stretches into infinity, a reminder of everything that’s at stake. The machines beside the bed emit a soft hum, their rhythmic beeping punctuating the air like a metronome ticking away precious moments. The green lights of the oxygen monitor blink steadily, a pattern I’ve memorized, one I could probably trace in my sleep. Yet, sleep eludes me, just like comfort.
Emma lies before me, a pale shadow of the vibrant woman I know. The harsh medical lights cast a stark glare that accentuates her fragility. Her dark hair, once so full of life, spreads across the pillow, some strands still matted with dried blood—evidence of the fight she put up. Bruises are already blooming along her throat, dark finger-shaped imprints that twist my stomach into knots every time I see them.
I tighten my grip around her hand, feeling its smallness in mine. Fragile. That word gnaws at me, a dark thought that refuses to leave. Emma is not fragile; she proved that tonight. Even bleeding on the kitchen floor, she fought fiercely enough to take down a man twice her size.
My jaw clenches tighter, a futile attempt to rein in the waves of guilt crashing over me. I wasn’t there, and that thought feels like a lead weight dragging me down.
My thumb grazes over her knuckles, tender and gentle. “Come on, Trouble,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. There’s no response, just the steady hum of the machines and the soft sound of her breathing, which feels both comforting and terrifying.
“You’re supposed to be yelling at me right now,” I continue hoarsely. “You drive me insane.” Her fingers feel impossibly small, as if they might crumble under the weight of my concern. “You’re stubborn, you run your mouth, you push every damn button I’ve got.” My throat tightens as the reality of our situation sinks in deeper.
“If you don’t wake up,” I whisper slowly, “I’m gonna lose my mind.” The truth sits heavily in my chest, a weight I didn’t want to acknowledge until now. Watching her breathe, so fragile and vulnerable, I can no longer deny it.
I love her.
The realization hits like a punch to the gut—quiet, heavy, terrifying. I’ve had women before, plenty of them, but none of them ever mattered like this. None of them ever had the power to destroy me just by staying still.
My hand tightens around hers. “You don’t get to leave me,” I murmur, the words catching in my throat.
The door opens softly behind me. I don’t look up immediately, but I recognize the footsteps—Doc, our club doctor. He stops beside the bed, glancing down at Emma before turning his attention to me.
“How is she?” I ask, my voice strained.
Doc studies her monitors for a moment. “Stable,” he replies, and the word loosens something tight in my chest. But he doesn’t look completely relaxed, and I notice that immediately.
“What?” I ask, the knot in my stomach tightening.
He hesitates slightly, as if weighing his words. “There’s something else,” he says carefully.
My stomach drops. “What?”
—-
Emma
Everything hurts.
That’s the first thing I realize.
Pain is everywhere. In my ribs. In my head. In my throat. Even breathing feels wrong, like something inside my chest doesn’t want to move the way it should.
A soft groan slips out of me before I’m even fully awake.
The sound is weak.
Foreign.
My eyelids feel heavy, like they’ve been glued shut. When I try to open them, bright light burns against the back of my skull.
