Breathed in.
Breathed out.
This was what I was good at.
Blood did not scare me.
Bullets did not scare me.
Men making terrible choices and arriving in pieces did not scare me.
Then the ambulance bay doors flew open.
The first stretcher came in hard and fast.
Paramedics surrounding it.
Blood everywhere.
Leather cut open.
Black fabric.
Ink.
A patch.
My mind saw the patch before it saw the man.
Royal Bastards.
For half a second, my body stopped belonging to me.
No.
No, not here.
Not my hospital.
Not my family.
Not—
“Nate Callahan,” the paramedic shouted. “Male, thirties. GSW upper chest and shoulder. Pressure unstable, breathing labored but present. Needle decompression in field not performed. Possible hemothorax. Lost blood en route.”
Nate.
The name hit me so hard the trauma bay blurred.
Nate’s face was pale beneath road dust and blood. His beard was darker with sweat. His eyes were half open, unfocused, but his mouth still twitched like he was trying to insult death and couldn’t find the breath.
“Nate,” I whispered.
Lily’s hand gripped my elbow once.
Not to comfort.
To anchor.
