“I would have done fucking worse if Sín wasn’t fucking there watching me.”
Bricks ends the call, raising an eyebrow as Varina steps out of the building. His gaze flicks to me and then to Saint before his smile turns into something demonic. “Am I handling her?”
Saint shakes his head. “Not yet. Give her a warning. She can meet us in a few days. I’m getting Sín home.”
Saint moves past him and lowers me into the back seat with a care that terrifies me more than roughness would. He keeps one hand behind my head, the other under my knees, shifting me slowly as if he can negotiate with pain by being patient enough. I still cry out when my ribs move wrong.
“I know,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I know. I’m sorry, Sín.”
Demo climbs in beside me after a panicked glance at Saint, one hand hovering like he wants to help and doesn’t know where he can touch without hurting me. Ash stays behind, both him and Bricks approaching my sister. I almost want to stay and watch what happens. The other part of me just wants to go home. Saint slams the driver’s door hard enough to make the SUV shudder and tears out of the lot before everyone is fully braced.
The drive back is a blur of headlights, pain, and Saint’s voice. He talks the whole way, pushing orders into the phone and threats at anyone who doesn’t answer fast enough.
“Get Doc to the clubhouse now.” “No, not in ten minutes, now.” “Tell Tally to clear the back room.” “Moth, I have him.” There’s a pause after that one, rough enough that I feel it even half-conscious. “Yes, he’s alive but he’s hurt bad.” Another pause. “I don’t know. Just be ready.”
Every time I make a sound, his eyes flick to the rearview mirror. Every time the SUV hits a rough patch and pain rips through me, his hand tightens on the wheel until I think he might break it. Demo murmurs useless, frantic things beside me, telling me to breathe, telling me we’re almost there, telling me I did good like he’s trying to patch my body with the only words he has. I want to tell him it’s okay but I can’t make my mouth work around anything other than shallow breaths.
My lids start to drift close, just as I recognize the buildings in Obsidian territory.
“Sín! Baby, fuck, you have to stay awake,” Saint yells, his gaze meeting mine through the rearview mirror. The tires swerve through the gravel, my whole body jolting forward.
I try to obey him as he gathers me up into his arms again, everyone seemingly waiting for our arrival.
“Doctor!” Saint roars as the conversation dies in the main room. He stalks down the hall to a back room, Tally gesturing us in.
The table there has been stripped and covered with clean sheets, a lean, scarred man I’ve never seen before standing at the side, sleeves rolled up, nearly blond hair cut close to his head, one side of his face marked by an old burn scar that pulls at the corner of his mouth. His eyes go over me quickly, and then to Saint.
“Lay him down.”
Saint doesn’t move.
The doctor’s voice sharpens. “Saint. Lay him down or I can’t see what’s wrong.”
That gets through to him as Saint lowers me onto the table, and even with all his care, the shift hurts so badly the ceiling goes black around the edges. I hear myself cry out. Saint’s hand catches mine immediately, fingers closing around the ring and blood and all.
“Fix him,” Saint says.
The doctor is already cutting my shirt open. “I need room.”
“Fix him.”
“I heard you, VP.” The doctor presses careful fingers along my ribs, and I choke on the pain. “Possible cracked ribs, facial trauma, blood loss from shallow cuts, dehydration, concussion risk. If anything’s broken internally or he starts crashing, he’ll need a hospital. You’ll need to construct some kind of story so they don’t start asking questions.”
“I don’t care,” Saint says. “Fix him.”
The doctor looks up. “You will care if he needs surgery.”
Saint leans over him, the whole room shrinking around his voice. “If he dies, it’s your head.”
The doctor doesn’t flinch. “If you keep threatening the man trying to keep him alive, you’re going to slow me down.”
For one second, I think Saint might actually kill the doctor for speaking to him like that. Then my hand twitches in his, and his attention drops back to me so fast it hurts to watch. “Sín,” he murmurs. His hand cups the side of my head, careful around the swelling. “I’m here.”
Pain and exhaustion have turned the room watery, the lights above me keep stretching into long white lines. The doctor shines something in my good eye and tells me to stay with him. Saint’s voice comes closer, repeating it like he can make the order matter more if it comes from him. “Stay with me, Sín.”
There’s so much more fear in his words now, naked enough that even the pain can’t hide it from me. Saint sounds like a man standing at the edge of something he can’t command, can’t shoot, can’t threaten into obedience. His thumb strokes once over my ring, and when I manage to turn my fingers weakly against his, his breath breaks.
“I had no choice,” I whisper again, because some wound deeper than the cuts still needs the answer.
