Page 115

He sways, but I have him—I have him—and for one glorious heartbeat, he leans on me. Leans into me, alive and breathing, but we barely have a moment to contemplate it before activity explodes around us.

Voices.

Boots.

Motorcycles and the relentless flood of flashing blue lights.

The firefighters in the lane have spotted the battle-scarred tractor. They shout for paramedics and together they burst through the gate and run across the yard, medical bags already swinging from their shoulders.

Poet freezes, rigid stillness locking his entire body down. Save for his fingers digging into my forearm with bruising force, he’s cornered prey, and his breathing accelerates so fast it feels like my own.

…I can’t even smell a hospital without hyperventilating.

Except, it’s clearly not just hospitals that frighten my love so. It’s all of this, and I move fast to protect him. I shield him, my body a brick wall between him and the strangers who want to help.

The flashing lights fade with every soul around us. I take his face in my hands and soot coats my palms, blood smearing beneath my thumb as I coax him to look at me.

Baltic-blue eyes meet mine again. The same blue eyes that held no fear when he left me a few hours ago. But he is afraid now. Not of the fire. Or of the blood. But of a ghost from the past he’s yet to escape.

“Put your hand on me.” I speak slowly, so he can catch every word. Wait for him to splay his shaky palm over my heart. “I have you, Po,” I tell him as his balance falters. “Everything is going to be okay.”

Everything will be okay. Of that I am certain. But it isn’t a simple journey to get there. Or even a linear one. Poet and Folk are both injured, weary, and too stubborn to accept help until the other is taken care of, and I am not built to fight them on this. I am not built to fight Poet at all when I need to hold him so badly I feel like I am coming apart at the seams.

Stop. You need to be stronger for him.

I try, I do. But when Mal cannot reason with them either, it takes a Rebel King intervention to break the deadlock.

Cam O’Brian sweeps into the yard, Rubi and Locke Halliwell not far behind him. They read the situation with startling speed, and then Rubi and Locke lead Folk away.

It leaves Poet and I with Cam and Mal. I do not know where Dav has gone. Nor do I care much, though I won’t forget he showed up here for Poet tonight. I will make sure Poet knows when he is ready to hear it.

As it stands, it is another fight to convince him he is hurt enough to warrant at least allowing Mal to look at his wounds, and when that finally happens, the news isn’t good.

Mal irrigates the source of most of the blood staining Poet’s skin—a deep gash on his flank. He frowns as he crouches to get a better look, bringing the edges together with gloved fingers. “Nope. Not happening.”

“You cannot glue it?” I do not look at the vicious gash again. Once was enough.

Mal shakes his head, frown intensifying. “This needs deep sutures and that’s way outside my skill set.”

I am still holding Poet—his hand, specifically, the one Mal has already cleaned and dressed. We have not lost contact since I dragged him off the tractor, and every now and then, he leans closer to breathe me in, as if he needs convincing all over again that I’m real. His eyes are distant, though. He has not spoken or flinched while Mal has examined him, and I wonder if he’s awake. If he has fallen asleep where he stands.

Then I realise, he’s not as zoned out as I thought. That he’s watching a similar scene playing out twenty feet away, while Locke and Rubi care for Folk.

Mal notices too. “You want me to find out what’s going on over there?”

Poet nods.

Mal takes his cue and rises, joining the huddle across the yard. And it’s not accidental. We are alone barely a minute before Rubi tries his luck with Poet under the guise of exchanging information. “Big brother has a nasty scorcher on his arm. Locke thinks we can manage it here, but he might need the burn clinic in the morning. How are you doing?”

Poet shrugs.

I rub my thumb over his pulse point as Rubi zeroes in on the savage wound and pales a little. “Fucking-A. That’s not getting fixed with gaffer tape and a cheeky zoot, is it?”

Still fixated on Folk, Poet gives no answer.

Rubi glances at Cam, who’s been quiet too, with us at least. His phone is busy, and a few moments later, more Rebel Kings roll into the yard.

One of them is Saint and something in Poet seems to capitulate as he approaches and takes Mal’s place.