"I know." I try to reach up and touch her face, but my arm won't cooperate. "You—you were amazing?—"
"Don't talk. Save your strength." She's looking around wildly. "Where the fuck is everyone? Why isn't anyone coming?"
I don’t think I’ve ever heard my perfect Southern girl curse before. I’d be hard as fuck right now if all my blood weren’t pouring out onto the floor.
I can hear footsteps, vaguely. Running. Voices shouting.
"Ma'am, step back?—"
"No!" Savannah is screaming. "No, I'm not leaving him! He's bleeding! He needs help!"
"Ma'am, we need to assess?—"
"Then assess him! Do something!"
I can feel hands on me that aren’t Savannah’s. Hands I don’t want, lifting me. Moving me. I'm placed on a gurney, and Savannah tries to follow, but someone holds her back.
"Ma'am, you need to let us work?—"
"That's my—" She stops herself. "That's the father of my child. I'm not leaving him."
"You need medical attention yourself?—"
"I don't care!" She's fighting them now, and I can see her trying to get to me. "I need to be with him!"
"Savannah—" I try to say, but my voice is too weak. She breaks free from whoever is holding her, and she's at my side again, taking my hand.
"I'm here," she says. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm not leaving you."
"Savannah—"
"No!" She's crying so hard she can barely speak. "I'm not leaving you. Not after everything. Not after—" Her voice breaks, and she presses her forehead against mine.
"I love you," she whispers. "I love you so much. Please don't leave me."
"I love you too," I manage, and I use the last of my strength to squeeze her hand. "I'm—I'm sorry?—"
"Don't apologize. Just stay. Just?—"
But I'm fading. The edges of my vision are going dark. The last thing I see is her face, and the last thing I hear is her voice, calling my name.
And then everything goes black.
30
SAVANNAH
The machines beep in a steady rhythm, and I can’t stop listening to each and every one.
Beep. He's alive. Beep. He's breathing. Beep. He's still here.
Romeo has been unconscious for eight hours. The surgery took nearly five hours—they had to repair the damage from the stab wound, stop the internal bleeding, and close the wounds Thad's knife left behind. Dr. Robinson, the trauma surgeon, told me he was lucky. Two inches to the left, and he would have bled out before they could have performed surgery.
Two inches.
I sit in the chair beside his bed, holding his hand, and I can't stop thinking about how close I came to losing him. About how I killed a man to protect our unborn child, and how Romeo nearly died protecting me.
My hands are clean now—someone made me wash them, made me change out of the blood-soaked hospital gown—but I can still feel the weight of the knife. The resistance when it entered Thad's chest. The wet sound he made when I pulled it out.
