He looks at me. Really looks. And for once, he doesn’t fight.
He just nods once. Solemn. “She’s yours, Doc. Until I say otherwise.”
Then he walks out into the cold night, leaving me with the weight of her suffering—and the responsibility to fix what’s left behind.
The fury hasn’t fully leftme. I shove it down as I step inside the warm house.
Upstairs, I hear murmurs and the patter of feet. I take the stairs two at a time.
Vincent steps out of the bathroom, holding Briella upright. Her head rests against his shoulder, her skin damp and glowing. Seth stands beside them, IV bag raised, face focused. Rory gently towels her off, hands softer than I’ve ever seen them.
“Put her on the bed,” I rasp.
Vincent lays her down like she’s made of glass. Her hair spreads across the pillow, soaking it like violet ink.
“Get her a dress,” I direct. “Something soft.”
He returns with a white dress printed with purple flowers. It’s delicate—too delicate—and my chest aches picturing her in it.
I insist, dressing her slowly. Her body is limp and trusting, skin chilled. I shouldn’t let my hands linger. But I do.
Seth sits behind her and begins braiding her hair. His calloused fingers work gently, tying the strands together the way he always does with everything broken.
I check the IV. The angle’s wrong. No spare fluids nearby. “I need to fix this.”
“I’ll get the supplies,” Vincent offers.
“No!” Too sharp. He freezes. I sigh. “I’ll do it.”
He steps back without a word.
After going to the hall closet, I return with what I need. I adjust the line, prime a new bag. My hands know the motions, even if I’m still shaking.
That’s when I notice the little skunk peeking out from under the bed. His tiny claws scrabbling for a grip on the blanket before it finally hops up. Determined little thing. It noses into the curve of her side and settles there, like it knows she needs guarding.
Seth finishes the braid and slips out. Rory’s gone. Vincent lingers. “You need to shower,” he tells me.
“I’m fine.”
“You smell like death and blood,” he replies. “The last thing we need is you sick.”
I open my mouth, but he cuts me off. “Don’t make me pull the one card I have, Jude. Shit. Go.”
I don’t argue.
In the bathroom, I grip the sink, my hands like the bruises on her skin. My reflection is wrecked.
The water burns as I step under it. I need it to hurt. Need something to sear the night off my skin. My hand slaps the wall, a crack echoing through the steam. My throat tightens.
Raphael can’t feel love.
But I can. And I do.
God help me, I fucking love her.
49
Seth
