Page 17 of Canvas’ Muse

"Who's she?" The dark-haired woman asks, nodding at me.

"Client who got caught in the crossfire," Phoenix answers. "Eden, those are Ivy, Nora, and little Grace. They're under protection here, too. Ladies, Eden's staying with us until we sort this mess out."

I don't miss the way both women's eyes light up with interest. Great. I'm about to become clubhouse gossip before I even know where the bathrooms are.

The medical room is exactly what I'd expect—a hospital bed, cabinets full of supplies, proper lighting, equipment that's newer and better maintained than half the stuff in the ER. Saint clearly takes his role seriously.

They get Davis onto the bed, and he immediately tries to sit up. "I'm fine. Don't need to lie down."

"You're lying down." Saint pushes him back with one hand. "Doctor's orders."

"You're not a doctor."

"Paramedic. Close enough." Saint turns to me. "You staying?"

"Yes." I move to Davis's other side, automatically checking his pulse. Still elevated but stable. "His vitals were good during the drive. No signs of shock progression."

"Good." Saint is already pulling out monitoring equipment. "Help me get him hooked up. Blood pressure cuff, pulse ox, the works."

I attach the pulse ox to Davis's finger while Saint wraps the blood pressure cuff around his good arm. Within minutes, we have him fully monitored, the machines beeping steadily.

"Pressure's 128 over 84," Saint reads off. "Elevated but not dangerous. Pulse is 92. Oxygen saturation 97 percent." He looks at me. "You did good work keeping him stable."

"I just applied pressure and wrapped it. You did the actual medical intervention."

"Pressure and wrapping saved his life." Saint checks the bandage on Davis's shoulder, making sure it's secure. "He'd have bled out without it. Don't minimize what you did."

Davis's eyes are already closing, his breathing evening out. The pain medication is really hitting now, pulling him toward sleep despite his best efforts to stay awake.

"He's going to crash hard," I tell Saint. "The adrenaline dump plus the medication plus the blood loss, he'll be out for hours."

"Good. He needs rest." Saint pulls a blanket over Davis, his movements surprisingly gentle. "You should rest too. You look exhausted."

"I'm fine."

"That's what everyone says right before they collapse." He gives me a knowing look. "How long have you been a nurse?"

"Four years in the ER. Two years before that in med-surg."

"So, you know you need to take care of yourself, too." He crosses his arms. "When's the last time you ate?"

I open my mouth to answer and realize I don't know. Breakfast? That was hours ago. I was too nervous about the tattoo appointment to eat lunch.

"That's what I thought." Saint moves toward the door. "I'll send someone with food. Stay with him if you want. If anything changes—fever, bleeding through the bandage, altered consciousness, you come find me immediately. I'll be in the common room."

He leaves before I can argue, and suddenly I'm alone with Davis.

I sink into the chair beside the bed. My hands are shaking again, not as badly as before, but enough that I notice. I clench them into fists, willing them to be still.

Davis's hand moves slightly on the bed, and without thinking, I take it. His fingers close weakly around mine, and even in sleep, he holds on.

*The strong protect the weak.*

I sit there holding his hand, watching his chest rise and fall, counting the steady beeps of the heart monitor. The reality of what happened is starting to sink in now that the immediate crisis is over. We were shot at. Multiple shooters with automatic weapons. Davis took a bullet. I could have died.

We both could have died.

My breath hitches, and I press my free hand to my mouth, fighting back the tears that are suddenly threatening. I can't fall apart. Not here, not now. I need to stay strong, stay present, stay—