There’s that please again.
I force my eyes open again. We're pulling up to a building. A hospital? No. A private clinic. Discreet. The kind of place that treats bullet wounds without asking questions.
Doors opening. Hands lifting me out of the car. Bright lights overhead, and voices shouting in French, and the cold sterile smell of a medical facility.
"Sir, you can't come back here—"
"Try and stop me."
Jagger's voice, hard as iron. No one tries to stop him.
I'm on a table. People in masks leaning over me. The bite of an IV needle. Something cold spreading through my veins.
"Jonah." Jagger's face appears above me, mask-free, still covered in dried blood. "They're going to put you under. You're going to be fine. I'll be here when you wake up."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
The darkness rushes in. But this time, I'm not afraid.
He'll be there. He said so.
And Jagger Harrison doesn't lie.
Chapter Seventeen: Jagger
I'vebeensittinginthis hallway for six hours. The blood on my clothes has dried to a stiff brown crust. My shoulder throbs where the bullet grazed me, untreated because I won't leave this chair until someone tells me Jonah is alive.
Jace tried to make me wash up. I told him to fuck off. Jinx tried to make me eat. I threw the sandwich at his head. Elliot hasn't tried anything. He just sits across from me, quiet and watchful, understanding in a way the others don't.
He knows what it's like to wait for someone you love to survive.
The clinic is private, discreet, the kind of place that treats bullet wounds and knife injuries without involving authorities. It costs a fortune and asks no questions. Jace made this little arrangement when he took up residence here, back when we still believed we might need an escape route someday.
Turns out we did.
The door at the end of the hall opens. A woman in scrubs emerges, pulling off blue latex gloves. Her face is neutral, professional, giving nothing away.
I'm on my feet before I realize I've moved.
"Mr. Harrison." Her accent is French, her voice calm. "The surgery was successful. The bullet passed through cleanly, missing major organs. He lost a significant amount of blood, but we've stabilized him. He's going to be fine."
The words don't register at first. They bounce off the wall of terror I've been holding up for six hours, taking time to penetrate.
Fine. He's going to be fine.
"Can I see him?"
"He's still unconscious. The anesthesia will wear off in a few hours." She studies my face, my blood-soaked clothes, the hollow look in my eyes. "Perhaps you'd like to clean up first. We have facilities—"
"Take me to him. Now.”
She sighs, recognizing a battle she won't win. "Room three. Don't wake him."
I push past her without another word.
The room is small, white, dominated by the bed where Jonah lies motionless. Machines beep softly, tracking his heartbeat, his oxygen levels, the steady rhythm of his survival. An IV line runs into his arm, dripping something clear.
