This time, I let him.
Carefully.
Slowly.
I transferred her into his arms piece by piece, supporting her head until Edge had her. The second she was against him, he wrapped around her like a wall.
She looked smaller in his arms.
That did something ugly to my chest.
Edge pressed his mouth to the top of her hair.
For one second, he was not president, brother, killer, ghost, or legend.
He was just a father holding the worst night of his life.
“I don’t care about the bike,” he said into her hair. “I don’t care about anything but you breathing.”
Destiny made a broken sound.
Regan grabbed the railing like her knees had gone weak.
Doc pointed upstairs. “Move, Edge.”
Edge moved.
Regan followed.
Tarak stood frozen for a second longer, eyes still haunted, then went after them like a man following a funeral procession he refused to let happen.
I stayed at the bottom of the stairs.
My arms felt wrong without her in them.
That was a problem.
Callum noticed.
Another problem.
Nate came up beside me and muttered, “You look like you just handed over your favorite weapon.”
“Shut up.”
“Not saying it’s smart. Just saying it’s visible.”
“I said shut up.”
He did, for once.
Above us, voices rose. Doc barking orders. Regan fussing. Edge demanding answers nobody had yet. Women moving fast. Water running. Someone crying softly and trying not to be heard.
Then Edge came back down.
Not all the way.
Just to the middle landing.
