Page 49

It very slightly feels like a threat.

“If you think the heat out there is bad, then the Forsyth PD is basically a tire fire,” he explains, eyes never leaving Nick’s slack face. “That goddamn Fed has his dick buried in every hole of the department.”

“That’s why you couldn’t take him to the hospital.” Verity’s question emerges in a small, shocked whisper, and when I glance at her, she’s gone ashen.

As he applies pressure, Sy’s thumb slowly strokes Nick’s bloody jaw. “We can handle local heat, but federal interventionwill mean the end to every Royal house.” He finally glances up, catching everyone’s stare. “It’d mean the end of Forsyth.”

I try to catch Pace’s gaze, but he’s locked on Verity, and it’s like a storm cloud is floating over his head, eyes dark and shadowed. Not exactly the reunion I wanted for them. I’d planned to stay here with her for a month and then take her home, put her and Pace to bed, and let things work themselves out.

Now, her owlish eyes are suddenly brimming with tears, locking with Pace’s over the distance. “You were right,” she gasps, clutching her chest. “This is all my fault. He’s going to die because Stella went missing, and she went missing because someone wanted to takeme.”

With every word, her voice rises, hysteria bleeding into the edges, and it’s a good thing Pace springs into action because I’m too tangled in the ambulatory pump to calm her down.

“Rosi, stop,” he rushes out, gathering her up into a forceful embrace. Her shoulders hitch with a sob, and I’m reminded of the two of us doing much the same thing mere hours ago, right on the couch.

Her hormones must be going into overdrive this week.

Pace murmurs gentle words into her temple. “We don’t know why she went missing. I’m the one who was wrong, okay? I was trying to scare you because I didn’t want you to leave. This isn’t on you, and neither is Stella. Understand?” I don’t miss that he reaches down, splaying a wide palm over the swell of her belly.

Despite the situation currently happening on the kitchen table, some part of me unwinds in relief. He’s been insufferable all week, but my brother has always been too stubborn to apologize.

I plug the pump into the nearest socket, calling, “Pace.” And ignoring the fact Perilini is right beside me as I say this, I lookmy brother in the eye and command, “Take her to bed. The stress isn’t good for either of them. Give her what she needs.”

Pace pulls her closer, his hand wrapping around the base of her neck. “You’re sure?” At my nod, he exhales, a slight shudder moving through him. “I’ve got her.”

It bothers me less than it should as he leads her into the bedroom, closing and locking the door behind him. I’ll never really understand it—the way having him inside of her evens her out, makes her soft and pliant and calm—but it’s something they both need.

Plus, it’ll distract her, which is good.

If I’m going to save Nick Bruin, I’ll need complete focus.

“Rememberwhen you came for me and Remy that night? In the water?” She’s sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the table. It’s been dragged all the way up to the edge, but Lavinia Lucia’s cheek is pressed to the table, her mouth up against Nick’s ear. Her eyes are bloodshot and puffy, tears still occasionally tracking down her temple. She’s tangled their fingers together, their joined hands resting on his tattooed stomach. Every few seconds, she’ll tense with a sob that she refuses to let free. “He knew you’d find us, Nick. That you’d never let us fly away. I need you to come back to us now. Follow my voice, okay?”

Sy’s begun pacing finally. He walks back and forth in front of the large windows, eyes scanning the rooftops above and streets below. “Is he still breathing?”

He also keeps asking these annoying questions. “Yes,” I sigh, squinting as I place the next suture. The skin of his neck is all torn to fuck, but thankfully, the artery itself is a rather cleanlaceration. At the head of the table, the ambulatory pump is feeding the seventh unit of blood into Nick’s veins.

Remy is sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, his head in his hands.

At least he’s quiet.

I work like this for a long while, the Duchess’ soft, lilting voice a background mantra to the hum of the pump and the beep of the blood pressure monitor. Ballsy dug out some rusty old hood lamp from a storage closet downstairs and it pains me to think of how much more sterile this all could be.

As I tie off another suture—almost done with the hard part—I glance up at the monitor to see how his pulse is doing.

Nick Bruin’s blue eyes are staring back at me.

I freeze for only a split second, holding his blank stare, and then get back to work. “You took a gnarly piece of shrapnel during the shootout,” I explain, keeping my voice low and matter-of-fact. “Right now, I’m suturing the hole in your carotid artery. I need you to be very still. Don’t speak.”

It’s only then that the others realize I’m not just talking for the sake of it.

A lot of things happen at once. The Duchess jolts from her chair, the legs screeching against the floor. Sy sprints towards us. Remy bolts to his feet.

“Nick?” Lavinia cries, squeezing his hand.

Sy looks like he both wants to vomit and punch something, and it’s very hard to tell which is the greater impulse. “He’s awake? You’re doing that while he’s conscious?!”

“Please,” I grit out, feeling sweat spring to my forehead, “calm down. This is precision work I’m doing.”