My ribs ached with every breath. My head felt like it had been split open and poorly stitched back together. Even my eyelids protested when I tried to open them, the effort requiring more energy than I had to spare.
But I was alive.
The realization came with a rush of disorientation that made the room spin before I'd even fully opened my eyes. I was lying down on a surface that was too soft to be concrete. Clean sheets instead of damp floor. The smell of antiseptic instead of mold and blood. Steady beeping from the machines I couldn't see yet.
A hospital.
Which meant I'd made it out of the warehouse. Meant Rafael was gone. Meant I wasn't chained to a floor waiting for the nextround of waterboarding or the psychological torture designed to break me into pieces.
Declan.
I forced my eyes open despite the way the light stabbed through my skull. Blinked against the brightness until the room came into focus. White walls. Medical equipment. A window showing the gray Chicago sky beyond glass that looked smudged with old rain.
And there, slumped in the chair beside my bed with his head tipped back against the wall and the exhaustion carved into every line of his face, was Declan.
He was alive. Bruised to hell and back with a fresh line of stitches running across his temple and his left arm in a sling, but alive and breathing and here.
I must have made a noise because his eyes opened immediately. Went from half-asleep to fully alert in the space of a heartbeat. He sat forward and winced at the movement, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made my throat close up.
“Troy.” My name came out rough and wrecked, like he'd been saying it over and over while I was unconscious and hadn't quite believed I'd answer. “You're awake.”
“Yeah.” My voice sounded like I'd been gargling glass. “How long was I out?”
“Thirty-six hours. Give or take.” He reached for the water pitcher on the table beside my bed and poured a cup with the hands that shook just enough to make the plastic rattle. “The doctors said you'd wake up when your body was ready. The concussion and blood loss just needed time.”
He helped me drink. Held the cup steady while I took small sips that hurt going down but eased the desert in my throat. When I'd had enough, he set it aside and just looked at me like he was cataloguing the damage and making sure I was real.
“Rafael?” I asked.
“Dead.” Declan's expression went flat and hard. “You put two bullets in him. He didn't get back up.”
The memory came back in fragments. The gun in my hand. Rafael turning toward me. The recoil jarring up my arm. His body hitting the floor.
I'd killed him.
The thought should have meant more than it did. Should have carried the weight or guilt or horror. But all I felt was the grim satisfaction that the bastard was gone and couldn't hurt anyone else.
“Good,” I said.
Declan's mouth twitched in almost a smile. “Yeah. It is.”
“Everyone else make it out?”
“Mostly.” He shifted in the chair and adjusted the sling. “Dmitri took a bullet to the shoulder. Ash has a concussion. Luka's fine, which is somehow both expected and deeply irritating. Mara showed up at the hospital threatening to kick my ass for not calling her sooner, so she's also fine.”
“And you?”
“Fractured ribs. Dislocated shoulder. Concussion number two, which the doctors were very concerned about until I told them to fuck off and let me stay with you.” His eyes met mine and held them. “I'm fine, Troy. We all are. Rafael's people scattered once he went down. Luka's cleaning up the rest. It's over.”
The word felt impossible. Like a concept I'd forgotten existed somewhere between the first assassination attempt and waking up chained in a basement.
“I thought you were dead,” I said quietly. “At the arena. I saw you go down. There was so much blood. They were dragging me away and I couldn't get to you.”
“I know.” Declan reached out and took my hand in his with a gentleness that made my chest ache. “Dmitri got me out. Got me stitched up. I was conscious again within an hour. And the second I could stand without falling over, we started hunting for you.”
His thumb brushed across my knuckles in a back and forth rhythm that grounded me when nothing else felt solid.
I looked at him. Really looked. Saw the exhaustion carved into his face. The bruises. The way he held himself like he was still braced for the next hit even though the fight was over.
