Not again.
Not her.
Not like this.
“Seraphina—”
Her name tears out of me as I catch her before she hits the ground, dropping to my knees with her in my arms, pulling her against me as if I can keep her here through sheer force alone.
She’s limp.
Too still.
Her head lolls against my arm, her lashes resting against her cheeks like she’s simply asleep, but this isn’t sleep and every instinct in my body is screaming that something is wrong.That fucking, dirty, motherfucking piece of shit. Cunting, delusional, motherfucker. I’m going to fucking kill him
“Call a doctor. Now.”
My voice doesn’t sound like mine.
It’s sharp. Laced with something raw enough to cut through the room, because I don’t give a shit about control right now, I don’t give a shit about anything except my wife.
I shift, pulling her closer, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other pressed against her cheek, my thumb brushing over her skin like I can coax her back with touch alone.
Wake the fuck up. Don’t you dare do this to me. Stay. Stay with me. I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do without you. You’re my everything—my only fucking thing—don’t you dare fucking leave me. “Baby… come on,” My words are rough, uneven, betraying more than I ever allow anyone to see. “Come back to me.”
There’s movement around us.
Voices.
I’ll fucking kill Gideon. Rip his face off, douse him in gas, punt his cunting head clean off, and drive my guitar straight through his fucking neck.Sam is already at my side.
Mac is clearing space.
Logan is swearing under his breath.
Chace is on the phone, issuing orders that I don’t have the bandwidth to process.
None of it matters.
Nothing matters except the woman in my arms. My woman.
Seconds stretch into something unbearable, each one dragging like a blade across my skin, until the suite door opens again and a man steps inside, his presence immediately cutting through the chaos.
He’s older, maybe late fifties, dressed in a dark, well-tailored suit with a crisp white shirt beneath, a medical bag in one hand and wire-framed glasses perched low on his nose, his expression composed, detached in a way that tells me he’s seen panic like this before and refuses to be pulled into it.
“Give me space.”
Try me, motherfucker.
I don’t move.
I won’t.
“Sir,” he says, his tone firm now as his gaze lands on me. “If you want me to help her, I need access.”
Sam softly reaches out, his steady hand on my shoulder. Comfort. Reassurance. Everything I want to be for her. I force myself to breathe.
Every instinct in me fights it, claws against the idea of letting her go even an inch, but I force myself to loosen my hold just enough for him to work, my hands never fully leaving her, never fully letting go.
