Her head drops back. Her arm hangs. Blood smears hot across my shirt, my hands, my arms.
No.
Nono no.
“Beda.” The word comes out wrecked. “Beda, look at me.”
Nothing.
I carry her like I’ll break the fucking earth if it gets in my way, slam through the ER doors hard enough to rattle glass.
“Help!” I roar. “I need fucking help!”
Everything explodes at once.
Voices.
Footsteps.
Gurney wheels screaming over tile.
Hands reaching.
Someone says something sharp and clinical. Someone else curses under their breath at the amount of blood. A nurse points. A doctor is already moving. They reach for her.
I don’t let go.
“Sir—”
“Don’t fucking touch her!”
“Maksim.”
Vaska’s voice cuts through the chaos, close and hard.
Hands clamp onto my shoulders. More than one pair. I don’t even know who. I only know Ayla is being pulled from my arms and every part of me is trying to kill the people taking her.
Then I look at her face.
White.
Still.
And I let go because I have to. Because she’s not breathing right and they need her more than I do in this second.
They get her onto the gurney. One of the doctors is already shouting orders while they run.
“She’s crashing.”
“Move!”
I take one step after them and somebody catches me again.
Vaska.
“She’s going to need surgery,” he says, grip like iron on my shoulder. “You can’t follow.”
I shove him back on instinct, teeth bared, vision red and broken at the edges. “Get the fuck off me.”
