"She's fine." Beau turns from the window, and the relief painted across his features makes my ribs hurt for reasons that have nothing to do with the bruising. His eyes find Colt's briefly. "Already on her feet, nursing strong."
"Good." I try to sit up, immediately regretting every life choice that led to this moment as the room tilts and my ribs protest with white-hot fire. "That's... that's really good."
"Easy there, tiger." Colt's hands are gentle but firm, steadying me against the pillows. "You've been through hell and back. How're you feeling?"
"I'm okay. Sore as hell, but okay."
Gabriel pushes off from the wall, approaching with that measured stride that means serious business. "Lucy, I need to know exactly what happened out there. Can you walk me through it?"
"Jesus Christ, Gabriel." Colt's voice sharpens to a razor's edge. "She just woke up. Can't your interrogation wait five goddamn minutes?"
"Every hour we wait, the trail gets colder—"
"It's fine." I shift, hunting for a position that doesn't feel like I'm being stabbed by invisible knives. Spoiler alert: there isn't one. "Better to get it over with while the details are fresh."
Gabriel pulls out a small notebook, all sheriff now. "Start from the beginning."
"I was driving to Beau's ranch." The memory of that peace, those few minutes of hope right before everything went to shit, makes my throat close up. "Then this beat-up white truck came out of nowhere. Slammed into me from behind."
Colt's hand tightens on mine like he's trying to anchor me to the present. I squeeze back, drawing strength from the contact.
"I tried to lose them, but they rammed me again. Harder. Forced me off the main road onto some side trail." My voice stays steady, clinical, like I'm describing something that happened to someone else. "When I hit that tree, they were on me before I could even shake off the airbag."
"They?" Gabriel's pen hovers over the notebook like a vulture.
"Two men. The one who grabbed me looked skinny, twitchy, teeth broken. Smelled like cigarettes…" I touch my face without thinking, feeling the tender spots where his fists connected. "He kept screaming about where 'it' was. Said someone told them it would be in the vet's van."
"Fucking Cutter brothers." Colt spits the name like it tastes rotten.
Gabriel nods, unsurprised. "What else?"
"They wanted drugs. When I asked if they meant antibiotics, the skinny guy punched me." The memory hits visceral and immediate. Knuckles cracking against my cheekbone, stars exploding behind my eyes, the metallic flood of blood in my mouth. "Called me a stupid bitch. Said you can't get high off antibiotics."
The temperature in the room drops about twenty degrees. All three men go statue-still in that dangerous way that speaks of barely leashed violence.
"They tore the van apart looking for whatever they thought was hidden there. Got so focused on the destruction, I managed to slip away." The rest comes in jagged pieces. Terror. Pain. The sickening sensation of falling through empty air. "Didn't know about the ravine. Just ran blind. Then I was flying, and then... lights out until I woke up here."
"Ketamine." Colt's voice is flat as roadkill. "They were hunting for ketamine. Vets carry it for surgeries, junkies cook it down into Special K. Fucking hell, I should've known. Should've warned you this could happen."
"This isn't your fault, Colt."
But Beau rounds on him anyway, fear transmuting into anger the way it does when men don't know how to handle feeling helpless.
"Except it is, isn't it? You know that van's a target. You should've delivered the drugs yourself instead of sending her into the line of fire."
"I was elbow-deep in a difficult birth! Lucy was closer, and Darcy was dying—"
"You put her at risk!" Beau's voice rises like a thunderclap, and I can see the terror underneath his fury. "She nearly died because you couldn't be bothered to—"
"Enough." Gabriel's command cuts through the brewing storm, but his own anger simmers just underneath that sheriff's control. "You want to play the blame game? ThoseCutter shits should've been locked up months ago. If I'd done my job better, pushed harder for evidence—"
"Stop." I try to shout it, but my voice comes out more like a broken whisper. "All of you, just stop. Please."
They freeze like I've fired a warning shot. Three alpha males suddenly looking sheepish as scolded children. It would be funny if everything didn't hurt so much.
The door swings open, saving us from more testosterone-fueled guilt spirals. A woman in scrubs bustles in, tablet in hand, radiating the kind of no-nonsense competence that comes from years of dealing with difficult patients and their even more difficult families.
"Good, you're awake." She smiles at me before shooting a look at the men that clearly translates to 'behave yourselves or get out.' "I'm Dr. Chen. How are we feeling?"
