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But Sy cuts in, his voice sharp and tearing, “My fucking brother’s dying here, so could you pleaseshut the fuck upabout your pregnant Princess?! This is our property, and we need a place to hide out until?—”

“Oh my god.” Whipping around, I realize—unhappily—that Verity’s come out of her room. Her green eyes are locked on a motionless Nick, her face almost as pale as his. “Oh my god, is he…”

It’s a testament to Nick’s condition that Ballsack checks, squatting to put an ear to Nick’s mouth, before answering. “He’s still breathing. We can’t take him to the hospital, because?—”

“Because it’d out you idiots as the gun runners involved in a local shootout,” I say, ignoring the phone still going off on the couch. “Jesus Christ…”

“Pauly and Vinny are on the way,” Remy says, nodding. “She’ll make him better. She always makes him better.”

The look I give him isn’t subtle. This isn’t some slice he’s taken during Friday Night Fury. He doesn’t need a cutwoman or a gym medic. He needs a whole goddamn surgical team.

There’s a sharp intake of air, and then Verity zips toward me, dragging me toward the kitchen. “Save him,” she hisses.

I gawk at her. “With what?!”

Her gaze keeps darting behind us to where Nick is lying. “You keep people alive; that’s what you do. Pace said?—”

The phone’s still ringing.

“He’s a King’s brother,” I hiss back. “For fuck’s sake, he’s aBruin. If I try and fail…” Shaking my head, I can perfectly imagine the consequences waiting for me. It’d be the same if it were one of my brothers. “It’ll start a war. West End will never forgive me.”

Her face falls when she reaches out, touching my chest. “Earlier, you said… you said you were sorry for what you did to me.” Green eyes blaze into mine. “You’re sorry because you’re not empty, Lex. You have a soul. And… and one day, I’ll be able to forgive you for what happened that night, because deep down, I don’t really believe it was you.” Her face hardens as she strains closer. “But if you let Nick die on that floor without even trying, then I’ll be the one who’ll never forgive it. And then maybe you’ll prove yourself right because no one with a soul could do that.”

I search her face, and though I’m not proud of it, I wonder if she’d get that same anguished, desperate fire in her eyes for us.For me. “They’re family for you,” I realize.

Without hesitation, she answers, “Yes.”

Looking over my shoulder, I see Perilini giving his brother’s cheek a firm slap.

Nick’s unresponsive.

Muttering a curse, I start moving a stack of pregnancy and nutrition books from the dining table, snagging my glasses from the counter. “Get him on the table,” I call out, snapping my fingers. “You,” I say to Kaz. “Make a call to the frat’s best fighters and shore up security downstairs.” As they’re lifting Nick, Sy’s hand still tight against his jugular, I begin scrubbing my hands in the kitchen sink. “Ballsy, go in the bathroom, get all the towels and alcohol you can find. Ver.”

“I’m here,” she says, voice crisp and urgent.

I point to the couch. “Answer that phone. Put it on speaker.”

She scurries to grab the phone, and as soon as she does, Pace’s winded voice rings out. “I’m walking out the door now.”

I scrub harder. “Then go back inside. I’m going to need my red bag.” Glancing at Nick’s lifeless body, now splayed over the kitchen table, I add, “The blue one, too.”

“Blue, yeah,” Remy rushes out, stroking Nick’s forehead. “Hear that? We’re gonna make you blue again, Nicky.”

I give Ballsy a nervous look, but he just shakes his head, mouth set into a grim line. There’s blood every-fucking-where, so when Verity holds the phone closer, I tell Pace, “And bring the ambulatory pump. He’s going to need a shit-ton of blood. Maddox! Are you with us?”

When I glance back, rinsing my hands under the hot spray, Remy’s snapping upright, fists flexing. “I’m here. What can I do?”

“Remember where we took all those blood bags?” I ask, pleased to see his quick nod. “Find Nick’s, Sy’s, their parents’, and whatever else is labeled ‘type-O’.”

Remy’s shooting out of the kitchen before I can even think to tell him he’ll need to break into it.

He’ll find out eventually.

When I get to the table, Sy spears me with a glare. “So help me god, if you tell me to do something that isn’t sitting here with my brother, I’ll knock your pretty fucking teeth into this table.”

“I need to see the wound,” I explain, reaching for the hand he has over Nick’s neck. A shirt, I realize, and Sy’s own, going by the fact his chest is bare.

But when I touch it, Sy growls.