After we’ve started moving, I realize there’s a cooler next to his feet.
“Water?” I question, though I do think it’s quite possible that Kylian brings an ice chest along on missions so that he can freeze some “keepsakes.”
Yes, I’m aware that I’m falling for a man who’s a smidge-bit psycho.
Luckily, he does have some water bottles stashed inside, and he cracks one open and hands it to me.
I drink greedily, gulping down the water until two thirds of the bottle is empty.
With a contented sigh, I finally find I’m able to ask, “So, where are Colter and Ridge?”
Kylian’s expression stiffens.
My throat crimps tight, and the air in my lungs freezes over.
“What?” I repeat, leaning forward, grabbing his knee. My thoughts race so quickly that they’re streaks of light, not even able to form into shapes, just pure, energized panic. “Where are they?”
Kylian swallows hard and casts his eyes down. “The hospital.”
My water bottle drops to my feet and erupts in a wild gush.
It feels like my heart does the exact same thing.
14
BRYLEE
Sterile light washesout Ridge’s hospital room, and a TV that no one’s watching plays a game show on the screen in the corner.
My gaze is drawn right to the leader of Alpha Team X as I clutch the door handle to this terrible space. The sight of Ridge in a hospital bed—eyes closed, hooked to machines—rakes down my chest and leaves a pulsing ache.
His blond hair is matted, there’s a smear of dirt on his nose, and worst of all, there are a thousand scents marring his, as if every person in the hospital has been in here.
Is it that bad?
When I step inside, the steady beep of his pulse blares from one machine. I move toward him, driven to touch him, driven to curl up next to him and hold him tight, but there’s an IV drip attached to his right arm. On the other side, wires stretch between him and several machines.
I end up standing at the end of his bed, clutching the footboard, staring up at the green screen that has numbers I vaguely knowthe meanings of. Blood pressure. Heart rate. But I can’t tell if the numbers on the screen are good or not.
Stupid, useless Brylee.
Frustration roars inside my skull, and the start of a migraine pulses at the top of my neck.
Kylian and Luka slowly trail in behind me, standing at a distance, giving me space.
I both appreciate and loathe their gesture. The violent riot in my chest would toss Molotov cocktails at them if they crowded me right now. But at the exact same time, I want them to fold me in their arms, one on either side, and tell me everything is going to be okay.
Tears form in the inner corners of my eyes, and I take a deep inhale to keep them at bay.
Luka pulls his phone from his pocket and starts swiping.
I don’t pay him any attention, too busy fighting off a sobbing fit, until he says, “Ridge had to get some stitches, and I think they had to pull a bit of a bullet out of his lower back. But Colter’s last text said he’s stable, and he should be all right.”
Relief hits like someone swung a shovel at my chest and battered me with it. It’s so intense that it’s painful, and my head curves down as I send a thank you up to the universe.
After several measured breaths, I ask, “Where’s Colter?”
I’m unable to keep a quaver out of my voice.
