Page 89

“I need to see the site,” I say suddenly, pushing myself up from the couch. “Take me there.”

“Vesper,” Oz catches my wrist, gentle but firm. “That's not possible.”

“I'm afraid he's right,” Lieutenant Wilson says. “The search area is restricted to Coast Guard personnel. And with night operations suspended until dawn?—”

“Then I'll wait until dawn,” I counter, desperation giving my voice a brittle edge. “I need to be there.”

Z rises beside me, his arm sliding around my waist. “What she means is that we appreciate being kept informed of any developments.” His eyes meet mine, a silent plea to stand down. “We understand you're doing everything possible.”

The officer nods, her demeanor snapping back to composed efficiency. “I'll have updates sent directly to you as the search continues.” She produces a business card, which Oz takes. “If your friend regains consciousness and can provide more details about what happened, please contact me immediately.”

After she leaves, I collapse back onto the couch, the momentary surge of adrenaline evaporating as quickly as it came. The harsh lights make my head pound, each throb a reminder that this nightmare is real.

“I can't just sit here. I can't...I need to do something.”

“Right now, the best thing we can do is be here for Talon. He's going to need us when he wakes up.”

“And Alex needs us now,” I counter, tears threatening again. “He could be out there, hurt, alone.”

“If Alex is out there,” Z interrupts gently, “he's doing everything in his power to get back to you. You know that. But right now, we focus on what we can control.”

The logic is sound, but it does nothing to ease the ache spreading through my chest. I try to breathe through the rising panic, sharp and relentless, threatening to pull me under.

The minutes crawl by with excruciating slowness, each tick of the wall clock landing like a hammer against my nerves. Z can’t stay still, pacing the length of the waiting room before sinking back beside me, only to repeat the cycle. Oz hasn’t moved from his place by the window, his silhouette as still and unyielding as stone.

I bite my thumbnail until it bleeds, the metallic tang on my tongue grounding me. A brutal reminder that I’m still here, still breathing—while Alex might not be. Every time I close my eyes,I see him in the water, reaching for a surface that never comes. I force them open again, fixing my gaze on the ugly pattern in the waiting room carpet to keep the images from overtaking me.

“St. James Family?”

My head snaps up. A woman in blue scrubs stands in the doorway. The three of us rise in unison, instinctively drawing closer.

“That’s us,” Oz says.

She nods, checking her clipboard. “The surgery was successful.”

Relief crashes into me so hard my knees nearly give out.

“Dr. Patel was able to repair the tissue damage and thoroughly clean the wound to reduce the risk of infection. He’s in recovery now,” she continues, glancing back at the chart. “His vitals are stable, but we’re monitoring him closely for complications from the hypothermia and blood loss.”

“When can we see him?" The question bursts from me, my voice cracking.

“We can allow one visitor at a time for now,” she replies, her expression softening as she takes in my desperate state. “Just for a few minutes until he's moved to a regular room. He’ll need to stay overnight. Possibly a couple of days."

Before either twin can speak, I step forward. “I'll go.” It's not a request. “I need to see him.”

Z and Oz exchange a quick glance, having one of those silent conversations only twins can manage. Oz nods slightly. “Of course. We'll be right here.”

The nurse gestures for me to follow her through a set of double doors. The recovery ward is quiet.

“He's still groggy from the anesthesia,” she warns, stopping before a partially drawn curtain.

I nod mechanically, steeling myself for what awaits beyond that thin fabric barrier. Nothing could have prepared me for thesight of Talon lying there, his skin nearly as white as the sheets beneath him. Tubes snake from his arms, monitors beeping a steady rhythm that should be reassuring but only amplifies the fragility of his condition. The broad shoulders that carried me when I couldn't walk are now swallowed by the hospital gown, making him look smaller somehow, diminished.

I approach the bed silently, afraid that even my breathing might disturb him. His left shoulder is heavily bandaged.

“Talon,” I sob, reaching for his hand. His fingers are cold, so cold, and I clutch them between both of mine, trying to transfer my warmth into him. “I'm here.”

His eyelids flutter open at the sound of my voice. “Vesper.” My name comes out as a rasp, his throat raw from the breathing tube they must have used during surgery.