Edge was behind her, big and silent, face carved into something that made my heart hurt worse than my ribs. Tarak stood over his shoulder, pale under his tan, jaw ticking so hard I could see the muscle jump. All three of them looked like they had been dragged behind the same nightmare and dropped outside my door.
But Regan got to me first.
She crossed the room in three strides and sat carefully on the edge of the bed, hands hovering over me like she wanted to touch everywhere at once but didn’t know what was broken.
“No,” she said again, softer. “You don’t start there.”
My eyes burned.
“I—”
“No.” Her hands cupped my face, so gentle I almost wished she’d slapped me instead. “Not with sorry. Not first.”
Edge came around the other side of the bed. He didn’t sit. He stood there like if he stopped holding himself up, the whole building might collapse with him.
His eyes moved over me, counting damage.
Bandage.
Bruise.
Burn.
Cut.
IV.
Me.
“My bike,” I croaked.
Regan made a sound that was half sob, half laugh. “I swear, Destiny Rourke, if you say one more word about that bike beforeI’ve decided whether to kiss you or shake you, I’m going to need Doc to sedate me too.”
I tried to smile.
It hurt.
So I cried instead.
Just one tear at first.
Hot and humiliating, slipping out before I could stop it.
“I really messed up,” I whispered.
Edge’s face changed.
He sat then.
Not gracefully. Not slowly. He sank into the chair on the other side of the bed like his bones had finally given out. My father reached for me, stopped halfway, then settled his hand gently over my ankle through the blanket because it was the safest place he could find.
“You’re breathing,” he said.
His voice was rough enough to scrape.
I swallowed, but my throat felt raw. “Dad?—”
“You’re breathing,” he repeated, like it was the only fact that mattered.
