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“The hell it is.” Eve turns to Dr. Martinez. “He needs stitches.”

The doctor’s stern gaze fixes on me. “Sit down, Mr. King. That cut needs attention before it gets infected.”

I want to argue, but Eve’s already pushing me into a chair, gentle but insistent. “Don’t be stubborn. Let us take care of you.”

The doctor cuts away my sleeve, revealing the full length of the gash. Eve’s sucks in a breath. It’s worse than I thought. Her fingers brush my uninjured arm, a silent gesture of support as Dr. Martinez prepares to stitch the wound.

“This will hurt,” he warns, reaching for a local anesthetic from the supplies the nurse already brought in to the room.

I grunt in acknowledgment, my eyes fixed on Seb’s unconscious form. The pain of the needle is nothing compared to the ache in my chest, the fear that still grips me despite knowing my brother will survive.

Eve’s hand finds mine, squeezing gently. I let her hold on as the doctor begins to work.

The steady beepof the heart monitor echoes through the otherwise silent room. I sit in the armchair beside Seb’s bed, my stitched arm throbbing in time with each electronic pulse. Eveperches on the edge of the mattress, her fingers absently smoothing the blanket covering my brother.

The smell of blood still lingers in the air, mixing with antiseptic and something else. My fear. It coats my tongue, bitter and sharp, impossible to swallow away.

Seb’s face is still too pale against the white pillowcase, dark circles shadowing his closed eyes. The rise and fall of his chest is shallow but stable. He looks younger like this, vulnerable in a way I haven’t seen since we were kids in the system, when I’d watch him sleep in whatever new foster home we landed in, terrified he’d disappear if I closed my eyes.

My hands are clean now, but I still feel his blood on them. Still see it soaking through his shirt, pooling on the floor. Still hear his ragged breathing as I held him in the car, begging him to hold on.

Eve’s hand finds mine in the dim light, her thumb tracing gentle circles on my skin. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to fill the heavy silence with empty reassurances. She just sits with me, anchoring me to the present when my mind wants to spiral into what-ifs and could-have-beens.

The clock on the wall ticks onward. Each second my brother breathes is another second he’s still fighting, still here. The night nurse will arrive soon to take over monitoring his vitals, but for now, it’s just us three in this quiet room, wrapped in the aftermath of violence and the fragile thread of survival.

My body aches with exhaustion, but I can’t bring myself to move. Can’t bear the thought of leaving him, even though the doctor assured me he’ll recover.

“Zeke.” Eve’s voice is soft as she places her hand on my uninjured shoulder. “You need to rest.”

I shake my head, my eyes fixed on Seb’s pale face. “I’m fine here.”

“You’re not fine.” She moves to stand between me and the bed, forcing me to look at her. Her green eyes are filled with concern, but there’s a stubborn set to her jaw that I recognize all too well. “You’ve lost blood too. Those stitches need proper care, and you need sleep.”

“I can’t leave him.” The words come out harsh, raw with an emotion I don’t want to examine too closely.

Eve kneels beside my chair, her hand sliding down to cover mine. “Eli’s right outside. The nurse is monitoring his vitals. He’s stable, Zeke.” Her thumb traces gentle circles on my skin, the touch oddly soothing. “You’re no good to him exhausted and in pain.”

“Eve—” I start to protest, but she cuts me off.

“Let me take care of you,” she whispers. “Just for tonight. Let someone else keep watch.”

I look at her—really look at her. The same fear I’m feeling is reflected in her eyes, mixed with something else. Something tender and fierce that makes my defenses waiver.

She stands, tugging gently at my hand. “Come on. Eli will get us immediately if anything changes. You know he will.”

Eve’s fingers are warm and sure around my wrist as she guides me up the stairs. My feet feel heavy, each step an effort, but she doesn’t let go.

“Almost there,” she murmurs, and I realize I’ve been leaning on her more than I intended. The pain in my arm throbs in time with my heartbeat, a reminder of disaster. Most of my men got out, but we still lost plenty.

She leads me through our bedroom and into our bathroom, the soft lamplight casting everything in gentle shadows. The familiar scent of her perfume lingers in the air, mixing with the antiseptic smell still clinging to my skin. She turns to face me, her hands moving to the buttons of my blood-stained shirt.

“Let me,” I protest, but she shakes her head.

“You can barely lift your arm,” she says softly, her fingers working each button free with careful precision. “Just let me do this.”

The gentleness in her touch undoes me more than the pain ever could. Each brush of her fingers against my skin feels like absolution, washing away the violence of the night. She eases the shirt off my shoulders, careful of the bandaged wound.

“Sit,” she commands, pushing me toward the edge of the garden tub. I comply, too exhausted to argue. She kneels before me and lifts my foot to slide off my shoe.