Two days. I look at William again. At the dark circles under his eyes and the way his body is angled toward my bed, even in sleep.
"Has he been here the whole time?"
The nurse follows my gaze. Something softens in her expression. "He discharged himself against medical advice after twelve hours. Three cracked ribs, a laceration on his left side that needed thirty-two stitches, and a hyperextended knee. The doctor told him he needed to stay for observation. He said no." She clips the chart back to the end of my bed. "He's been in that chair since."
That sounds about right.
"I'll let the doctor know you're conscious. Try not to move too much."
She leaves. The door clicks shut.
I lie still and let the beeping fill the silence, and I think about the field. Not images. I didn't have images. I had sound. Viktor's voice was accented and unhurried. William's voice, wrecked and steady. The word no. And then engines, and gunfire, and hands pulling me into wet grass, and after that nothing until this room.
I don't know what happened between my eyes closing in that field and opening in this bed. But William is here, alive, in a chair he hasn't left in two days. And I'm here. And whatever he did while I was face down in the dark, it was enough.
I chose him. And whatever happened in that field while I couldn't see it didn't undo that choice. It welded it shut.
William stirs. His head comes forward off the wall, and his eyes open and find me immediately, like he was looking for me even before he was fully awake.
"Hey." His voice is rough. Unused.
"Hey."
He leans forward. His hand finds mine on the blanket, and his thumb runs over my knuckles once, slow. "How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a car."
"Close enough." He doesn't smile, but something eases behind his eyes. He looks at me the way he did in the fieldlike he's checking. Making sure I'm real and solid and still here. "Your pupils look better."
"The nurse said the same thing."
"Good." He sits back, but he doesn't let go of my hand. "Your father's been calling. Three times. Aidan's been fielding them."
My chest tightens. "Is he okay?"
"Recovering. He wanted to come, but Aidan talked him out of traveling." William pauses. "He knows about Viktor. Aidan told him everything."
I wait.
He looks at our hands on the blanket. "He said he's glad I was there."
That's as close to an acceptance as Dillon O'Rourke will ever give. The man who promised me I'd never be forced into something I didn't want, then signed a contract with my name on it. The man who got shot because my brother sold us out to the Bratva. The man who, even from a hospital bed with a hole healing in his throat, is still calculating, still watching, still trying to hold the shape of the world together with the force of his will.
My father. Difficult and stubborn and impossible. And glad William was there.
"I need to call him," I say.
"Later." William shifts in the chair, and I see him wince. His hand goes to his left side, pressing briefly before he drops it. "Aidan's coming this afternoon. He'll bring you a phone."
"Where are we?"
"Private clinic outside Navan. Jason arranged it."
"Matty?" The name comes out first. He's the last person I remember. His hand on my arm, steering me through the dark. The car door. His face before he turned back toward the house.
"He's fine. Not a scratch on him." Something moves behind William's expression that I can't quite read. "He's been running security rotations since we got here. Him and Jason."
"And Jason?"
