He snatched up his knife, pivoted, and rushed to Rook’s side. The shot had gone through his shoulder. Sage tore the bottom of Rook’s shirt and shoved it hard against the wound.
Blood soaked through fast, warm and slick against his hands. It spread quickly, darkening the fabric under his grip.
Then he turned and cut Ashley loose from the chair.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice rough.
She shook her head, but her focus never left Rook. She dropped beside him, lifting his head into her lap. Fingers carding through his hair. Her hands moved without hesitation, steady despite everything.
Sage pulled his phone and called 911, dispatching an ambulance.
“Stay with him. I’ll be right back.”
“No.” Ashley grabbed his arm. “Don’t leave us…like—”
Like last time.
Sage knew it. He glanced at Rook, who suddenly looked away.
The weight of it settled hard in his chest—old choices catching up fast. It hit deeper than the moment, dragging everything else with it.
Fuck.
Ashley was his only remaining family. The others were dead. And he’d left when Daniel Voss started making demands—forcing him to take jobs he wouldn’t touch.
They hadn’t wanted to come with him, but he still felt he should have tried harder.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Sage said quietly. “So… you and Rook?”
“Yeah,” she sniffled. “If you came around more, you’d know.”
“I’m sorry.” He placed a hand on Ashley’s arm, then leaned in to help Rook keep pressure on the wound.
Sirens wailed in the distance. The sound cut through the block, growing louder with every passing second.
The sound cut through everything, growing louder, pulling the moment forward whether they were ready or not.
By the time Law pushed through the ER doors, the tracer on Sage’s phone had already updated twice, the last ping settling in place like a marker he didn’t have the luxury of questioning.
A hospital.
They came in with him—Rip at his shoulder, Syx already scanning ahead, Boston and Micah fanning out without a word.
The doors slid shut behind them, cutting off the night as the noise inside took over—coughing from somewhere close, voices layered over each other at the front desk, a television mounted high on the wall talking to no one who was really listening. A baby cried sharply and suddenly from across the room, the sound cutting through everything else.
The air carried it all—antiseptic and stale coffee, something metallic underneath that hadn’t been cleaned away yet, the press of too many people packed into a space that never really emptied.
A security guard hurriedly approached, heading their way.
“Genesis?”
“Yes,” Law said.
“Follow me.”
The guard stepped ahead as they moved past the front desk, the man’s presence enough that no one stepped in their path. A nurse glanced up, took in the badge, the uniform, the look on Law’s face, and looked right back down again.
The tracer pulsed steadily in his hand.
