When Luke told everyone that Jett had pulled a knife, the shock hit hard. The relief came after, the kind that settles heavy in your chest when you realize someone who’s been circling like a vulture is finally done. This time, there’s no bargaining, no quiet exit. He crossed a line he can’t talk his way out of.
But right now, we are back to waiting.
No one’s been allowed in to see Effa yet. I’d half-expected that, while I was stuck at the station, something would happen and I’d miss it, but she’s still under observation. Longer than I thought she would be.
The anger has burned itself out, leaving something colder in its wake. Numbness. I need to see her. I need to see with my own eyes that she’s still fighting.
Unless they are keeping us out because something’s wrong.
“Alana Scott-Carrington,” a voice calls from the corridor.
My stomach tightens as a doctor steps into view.
“Yes,” Alana answers, rising quickly.
“You can come through now. Two at a time.”
She doesn’t hesitate, reaching for my hand, and I lace my fingers through hers as we follow the doctor down the hall. Her grip tightens the farther we walk, like she’s drawing strength from me. I squeeze back, steady, even though my own pulse is hammering.
We stop at a sealed door, and the doctor gestures toward the sanitizer dispenser. “Please sanitize your hands.”
We comply, the sharp smell of antiseptic filling the air before the doors slide open, and we step into the ICU.
The room is quieter than I expected. Not silent, nothing in here is ever silent, but subdued. Machines hum and beep softly, voices stay low, and movements are controlled. It feels like stepping into a different world.
“I’m scared, Mercs,” Alana whispers, pressing closer to me.
“I know,” I murmur, because there’s nothing else to say.
The doctor pauses outside room seven and turns to us. “She’s stable. Remember, she’s in an induced coma. She won’t respond, but hearing is often one of the last senses to go. Talk to her. It helps.” He gestures lightly toward the door. “There’s a ventilator and monitoring equipment. It looks confronting, butshe’s progressing as well as I would expect at this stage of her treatment.”
Confronting is a goddamn understatement.
The door opens, and I force myself to step forward first.
Effa lies in the bed, pale against the white sheets. A tube extends from her mouth, tape securing it in place. Wires run from her chest to monitors that blink and pulse in a steady rhythm. The ventilator breathes for her, a mechanical sigh filling the space between us.
Alana sags against me for a second before straightening.
Because of Jett.
The thought burns.
“Oh, God, Effa,” Alana whispers, her hand covering her mouth.
The doctor checks her chart, murmurs that he’ll give us privacy, and leaves. The door shuts with a soft click.
The ventilator’s rhythm becomes everything. It syncs with the pounding in my ears until I can’t tell which is hers and which is mine.
Alana moves first. She steps to the bedside but hesitates, hands hovering like she’s afraid she might break her. I circle to the other side, drawn there without thinking. Up close, Effa looks almost peaceful. If not for the tube and the wires, she could be sleeping.
I take her hand, it’s cooler than it should be, and that bothers me more than the machines. So, I cover it fully with mine, trying to share my warmth.
“Effa,” I say quietly.
Alana looks at me, uncertain, but I keep going.
“Baby, I know you can hear me. Take whatever time you need. We’re here. We’re not going anywhere. You rest.”
