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Like a fuckingbearand everything.

The ridiculousness of it hits me, and I snap, “Has your Duchess ever re-attached a limb before? Because I have.” When he finally looks at me, I see the fear in his eyes. It’s an all-encompassing panic, and I’m bombarded by these flashes of memory.

Wicker standing over me after a rough whipping.

Pace standing over Wicker after that fight on the ice.

Wicker and I sitting outside the door to the dungeon for days, waiting for Father to release Pace.

“I’m not letting anyone lose a brother,” I promise, easing his hand away from the compress. “Let me try.”

Sy looks like he wants to let it go, but it takes a long moment for his hand to obey him.

When he does, the blood gushes out.

Immediately, I replace the shirt with a clean towel, applying pressure. “Pace? You still there?” Verity’s across from me, the phone still in her hand. Her face is drawn and slack, even though she couldn’t have gotten more than a brief glance at the wound.

“In the med room,” Pace says.

I inspect Nick’s motionless face. “Get the black box, too.”

There’s a long pause, and then Pace’s muttered, “Fuck.”

“What’s in the black box?” Verity asks, eyes wide and glistening.

I spare Sy a quick glance, knowing better than to bother lying. “Resuscitation equipment.”

Just in case.

There wasa time when I wanted to be a surgeon so I could heal people.

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt it, though.

The dream became a job, and then the job became an ambition, and then the ambition became a duty. Over the last few years, I’ve cut into way more people who deserved it than didn’t, and at some point, I stopped paying much mind to my knowledge being more of a weapon than a gift.

But right now, hunched over a lifeless Bruin, I begin feeling the strangest of things.

Like I really want to save him.

Not because Verity or West End wouldn’t forgive me if I didn’t. Truthfully, not even really because I'm convinced Nick Bruin’s life is precious or whatever nonsense. There’s no real incentive. No contract. No money. No Father on the other side of the door demanding it.

I want to save his life because I want to prove I can.

For a good ten minutes, I can do nothing but apply pressure to the wound, monitor his vitals, and make an order of operations, which Verity scribbles down for me on an old scrap of dusty newspaper.

“Vitals and transfusion first,” I say, giving the wound another quick look. It’s a clear slice in the carotid artery. Either the universe is on our side, or Nick’s worse off than I thought, because the bleeding has slowed to a sluggish trickle. “I’ll suture after he’s more stable.”

Luckily, the first knock on the door is Pace. He strolls in with a scowl, dark eyes going to Nick’s bloody body first, eventually landing on Verity, who hasn’t stopped pacing.

As soon as their eyes meet, she does.

“Just a head’s up,” Pace says, dumping the red and blue bags at my feet, “these streets are fucking crawling with five-oh.”

Rory Livingston trails in behind him, setting the black box down at the end of the table. “Also, the ten flashy fighters you’ve got posted out front are going to start drawing heat real soon.”

“Hold this,” I tell Sy, eager to get to my supplies. Once his hand replaces mine, putting pressure on the towel, I get to work unloading equipment, asking, “Doesn’t Maddox have connections on the force? Can’t he put in a call?”

Sy hasn’t paced once, choosing instead to stand back and stare at his brother, fists flexing rhythmically. It’s a bit surprising how still and quiet he’s been since I took the reins, almost like he’s giving me room to do my best.