Page 207 of The Final Cut

“I can walk.”

“You can shuffle angrily,” Shiloh tells him. “Little different.”

“Move the chair.”

“No.”

“I raised that girl with fewer men than this telling me what to do.”

“You should’ve raised her to pick less bossy ones,” Ever says.

“I tried, God knows. No accounting for taste.”

My laugh breaks before I can stop it. Then Cal appears in the terrace doorway.

The first thing I see is how much thinner he is.

His face has gone sharper under the cheekbones. His skin is still too pale. He holds a cane in one hand and has one arm looped through Deacon’s because apparently pride negotiates better with assassins than wheelchairs. There’s a brace hidden badly beneath his shirt, and the careful way he breathes tells me every step costs him.

But he is standing. Alive and scowling.

Cal’s eyes find mine. His scowl breaks.

I cross the terrace too fast. Nash says my name, warning tucked inside it, but I slow only at the last second because Cal has staples and healing tissue and probably six medical instructions I’m already violating by existing near him with feelings.

I stop in front of him with both hands hovering uselessly.

He looks down at them. “You planning to land one of those somewhere, kiddo?”

That does it. I put my arms around him as carefully as I can and start crying so hard he curses under his breath.

“Aw, hell.” His free hand comes up to the back of my head. Weak. Shaking. Still Cal. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re soaking my shirt.”

“You were shot.”

“Okay, she’s not blind.”

“You almost died!”

“I got better.”

I laugh and cry harder, which embarrasses both of us enough that Sonny turns toward the garden and pretends to be fascinated by a shrub. Shiloh makes a soft sound behind me. Ever says nothing. Nash’s hand settles on my back for one brief second, then leaves again. Delia’s chair scrapes the tile, but she stays where she is.

Cal presses his cheek to my hair.

“I’m here,” he says, voice rough. “I’m right here.”

I hold him until his breathing changes.

Then I let go fast, guilt slicing through the relief. “Did I hurt you?”

“Yes.”

My face crumples.