Page 168 of Flint’s Strike

“Parker!” Grace stops me, a hand on my shoulder. The gentlest pressure is enough to send me back down to the mattress.

God, I hate anesthesia.

“You’re stayin’ right here and restin’. AJ made everyone in a five-mile radius swear they’d bring Eliot right back to this room when they were done treatin’ him.”

Of course he did. Probably didn’t even raise his voice. AJ can charm the skin off a snake when he needs to. And if that doesn’t work, he rains hellfire down on whoever’s standing in his way of what he wants done.

With a sigh, I let myself drift.

A nurse comes in, asks a few questions, then leaves me with a cup of ice chips, which are the best damn things I’ve ever tasted. Possibly better than my mother’s pecan pie.

For the next little while, Grace stays. She doesn’t ask me to talk or try to fill the silence. She simply holds my hand, the same way I held hers months ago.

By midnight, I’m getting restless. As the clock ticks closer and closer to one with no sign of Eliot, I’m actively plotting ways to remove the IV and make it to the hallway before Grace can stop me. I’m about to ask her to get me another cup of ice chips as a distraction when the door opens, and Nate slips into the room.

He’s exhausted. There’s a smear of soot over his right eye, his tie is gone, and the top two buttons of his dress shirt are undone.

His gaze locks onto me, and I’m only dimly aware of Grace squeezing my hand and whispering, “Love you,” before she leaves the two of us alone.

A muscle in Nate’s jaw ticks, and he brushes a piece of ash from his sleeve. “Your hair is remarkably less blond than it was this afternoon.”

I blink at him, searching for a comeback, but between the look on his face and the tremor in his hands, all I can think is that something is very wrong.

“No one will tell me anything, Nate.”

His expression goes from worried to nuclear in less than a second. “I told the nurses to update you an hour ago. He’s having an MRI on his knee. He’d be here already if he hadn’t spent a truly impressive amount of time arguing he didn’t need his knee for anything important.”

Arguing. Arguing means he’s conscious. Arguing means he’s still…Eliot.

I swipe at the fresh wave of tears, but only manage to smear soot all over my fingers.

Nate strides into the tiny attached bathroom, grabs a wash cloth, and runs it under the tap for a moment before dropping into the chair next to the bed.

“You’re making it worse.” His voice holds the slightest hint of exasperation.

I try to take the cloth from him, but he shakes his head. His lower lip trembles for a single breath.

“Parker, let me do this,” he whispers.

I drop my hand.

He’s gentle. Careful of the thin tubes delivering oxygen and the cords snaking out the top of the hospital gown. When he’s satisfied my face is mostly soot free, he slides one hand behind my head and skims the cloth over my hair.

“You scared the hell out of me.” His gaze never leaves my hair, but his fingers tremble for a moment.

My cheeks warm, and I stare down at the blanket. “I know.”

He shakes his head. Tears gather at the corners of his eyes. “No, I don’t think you do.”

The light catches one of the larger burn scars on the back of my hand.

Oh, God. Three months ago, Nate caught me inches from the flames after I set Prophet on fire. When we got back to Austin, he stayed with me, putting me back together piece by piece, while I pretended I was fine.

And tonight…he watched me run into a burning building with no water, no oxygen, and no plan.

“You’re right.” I wait for him to meet my gaze. “I didn’t know. Nate, I’m sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry. But I’d do it again. I’d do it a thousand times. For Grace. For Eliot.”

My voice cracks, and I reach for his hand.