Relief crashes through me with such force that my knees nearly buckle.I grab the elevator rail to steady myself, watching as the erratic pattern on the monitor gradually becomes more regular.It’s still too fast, too weak, but it’s there.Zach’s heart is beating on its own again.
“BP’s sixty-forty,” the nurse reports, attaching a blood pressure cuff.“Pulse one-forty.”
“Push another unit of blood and increase the fluid rate,” Dr.Patel orders.“We need to get that pressure up before we put him under.”
The elevator doors open to the surgical floor, where another team waits to receive us.As we rush down the hallway toward the OR, I keep pace beside the gurney, one hand on Zach’s arm, unwilling to break contact until absolutely necessary.
“You’re doing great,” I tell him, not caring who hears the naked emotion in my voice.“Just keep fighting, Zach.Keep that heart beating.”
At the double doors to the OR suite, Dr.Patel pauses, turning to me with compassion in her eyes.“This is as far as you go, Dr.Blane.”
I know she’s right.Know that I need to let them do their jobs without my hovering presence.But the thought of leaving him, of breaking the physical connection that feels like the only thing tethering him to this world, is almost unbearable.
“Save him,” I say, my voice cracking despite my best efforts.“Please.”
She nods, her expression solemn.“We’ll do everything we can.”
I lean down, pressing my lips to Zach’s forehead in a brief kiss.His skin is cool against my mouth, the familiar scent of him now masked by antiseptic and the metallic tang of blood.
“I’ll be waiting,” I promise him.“Right here.So you come back to me, you hear?”
Then they’re wheeling him away, through the double doors that swing shut behind them with a soft whoosh that feels like finality.I stand frozen, staring at those doors, my hands still outstretched as if reaching for something essential that’s been torn from my grasp.
Behind me, a commotion erupts: raised voices, heavy footsteps, the distinctive sound of leather creaking.I turn to see the waiting area filling with Devil Souls members.Butcher leads the group, his massive frame somehow even more imposing in the confines of the hospital corridor.Behind him comes Shaylin, her face a mask of terror, and Grey, still bleeding from his own wounds but seemingly oblivious to them.
“Where is he?”Butcher demands, his voice carrying down the hallway with enough force to make a passing nurse flinch.“Where’s my son?”
“They’ve taken him into surgery,” I answer, moving toward them on legs that feel unsteady beneath me.“Dr.Patel is the best trauma surgeon in the hospital.She’s going to do everything she can.”
Shaylin steps forward, her hands reaching for mine despite the dried blood still caking my skin.“Tell me the truth,” she says, her voice surprisingly steady given the fear in her eyes.“Will my boy live?”
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implications.These people have seen enough of life’s harsh realities to recognize platitudes for what they are.They deserve the truth, however brutal.
“I don’t know,” I admit, the words tasting like ash on my tongue.“The bullet damaged his liver and possibly nicked the hepatic artery.He’s lost a significant amount of blood, and his heart stopped in the ambulance.”I swallow hard, forcing myself to continue.“We got it started again, but he’s not out of danger.Not by a long shot.”
Shaylin’s grip on my hands tightens, her nails digging into my skin.The small pain is grounding, a counterpoint to the larger agony threatening to overwhelm me.
“But he’s fighting,” I add, needing to offer something beyond cold medical facts.“He’s strong, and he’s fighting hard.”
Butcher nods once, a sharp jerk of his head that seems to contain multitudes.“Of course he is,” he says, voice rough with emotion he’s clearly struggling to contain.“He’s my son.”
The simple declaration carries such pride, such fierce belief, that I find myself nodding in agreement.Because Zach is fighting, I felt it in the way his fingers twitched in mine, in the stubborn persistence of his heart to resume beating when science and statistics said it shouldn’t.
“How long will the surgery take?”Grey asks, practical concerns asserting themselves through the emotional storm.
“Hours,” I answer honestly.“Possibly many hours, depending on what they find when they get in there.”
Tiana appears at my elbow, a cup of steaming coffee in her hands.“You should sit down,” she says gently, pressing the cup into my grasp.“You look like you’re about to collapse.”
Only then do I realize she’s right.My legs are trembling, adrenaline fading to leave exhaustion in its wake.I allow her to guide me to a nearby chair, sinking into it with a gratitude that surprises me.The coffee is hospital-grade terrible, but the warmth seeping through the paper cup into my palms is oddly comforting.
“You should get cleaned up,” Tiana continues, gesturing to my blood-covered hands and clothes.“I brought a change of clothes for you from the clubhouse.”
I look down at myself, really seeing the state I’m in for the first time.My clothes are saturated with Zach’s blood, the fabric stiff and dark where it’s begun to dry.My hands are worse, crimson staining every crease, caked under my fingernails, embedded in my skin like an accusation.
“I can’t leave,” I say, the thought of being away from this waiting room, even for the few minutes it would take to change, filling me with irrational panic.“What if there’s news?”
“We’ll be right here,” Butcher says, his tone gentle despite his imposing presence.“Nothing will happen without you knowing immediately.”
