Page 4 of Hunter

I yank the restraints again, harder, until the leather bites into my skin and the pain in my shoulder flares white-hot. Good. Let it burn. Let it remind me exactly what I deserve.

The guys saw it. They finally fucking saw the crack in my fake mask.

And I probably almost got Mike and Diaz killed, because I couldn’t stop chasing Robby’s ghost. It feels like he’s still burning somewhere, and I’m still here, breathing. I’ll be lucky if this doesn’t land me with a forced leave and court-ordered therapy. They tried to get me to go after it happened, but I refused.

I bare my teeth at the nurse, voice low and ugly, as I snarl, “Take these fucking things off me.”

She doesn’t flinch. Just gives me that same tired, careful look. “Not until the doctor clears you. Try to rest, Mr. Hale. Someone will be in soon.”

She leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind her like a cell door.

The silence that follows is worse than the beeping. It presses in from all sides, thick and cold, broken only by the monitor still counting out the heartbeats I don’t deserve. My wrists ache where the leather dug in. Good. I hope they bruise. Let everything hurt the way it should.

I stare at the ceiling tiles until they start to blur, counting the holes in an attempt to ignore the voice of my dead boyfriend inside my head.

He honestly would hate this for me. I know he would.

I can imagine him telling me to forgive myself. Well, fuck him. He doesn’t get a say, because he fucking died.

The thought sinks deep, twisting something inside me. Robby—bright and steady and always too good for this shit-hole world—would be sitting on the edge of this bed right now, voice low and calm, telling me I did everything I could. That it wasn’t my fault the beam came down. That I need to stop carrying his ashes around as if they belong in my lungs.

Fuck that.

I yank the restraints again, harder this time, until the leather bites deep enough to split skin and fresh blood trickles warm down my wrist. The pain flares bright and clean, cutting through the fog.

“You don’t get to be the hero now,” I whisper to the empty room. “You don’t get to tell me shit from six feet under. You left me here. While you took the easy way out.”

It’s a lie. He wouldn’t have left me if he had a choice.

I killed him.

The thought loops, vicious and endless, the same way it has since he died. Only now, I’m strapped to this bed like some rabid animal they’re afraid will bite the next person who gets too close.

The monitor keeps beeping; it mocks my every breath. I close my eyes and let the white walls press closer. The feeling of the smoke smell crawling down my throat until I’m choking on it, even though the air is clean.

Robby’s voice tries to push through again, soft and forgiving, the way it used to be when he’d pull me out of my own head after we had a bad shift.

I shove it down harder.

“Stay dead,” I mutter bitterly. “Just stay fucking dead, you asshole.”

The words are barely out of my mouth when the door swings open after a quick knock. A man in a white coat steps inside the room. He’s empty-handed, a stethoscope hanging around his neck, and a few pens in his lab coat pocket.

“Mr. Hale. It’s good to see you awake.”

“You can take these off now. I’d like to leave.”

He sighs, the sound tired and practiced, as though he’s had this conversation a hundred times with guys just like me. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. And even once they are off, you won’t be able to leave this floor until your hold is up.”

“Don’t I get a phone call or something?”

He smiles slightly, the kind of small, pitying smile that makes me want to rip his fucking throat out. “This isn’t jail.”

“No shit,” I snap, yanking on the restraints again. The leather bites deeper into the fresh cuts on my wrists, sending a hot spike of pain up my arms that almost feels good. Almost. “Then why the fuck am I chained to the bed like some psycho who might off himself any second?”

The doctor doesn’t flinch. He just pulls up the rolling stool and sits, folding his hands in his lap like we’re about to have a reasonable conversation. “Because on scene you refused direct orders, pushed into a collapse zone, and had to be physically pulled out by your crew while screaming your dead partner’s name. The department is concerned. We’re concerned. This seventy-two-hour hold is to make sure you don’t hurt yourself—or anyone else—before we can get you the help you need.”

Help. The word tastes like bile.