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QUINN
My brain feels like scrambled eggs as I pour over my NCLEX study materials for the fourth hour in a row. I know I won’t take the exam until after graduation, but I want to get a head start on preparing for it so I ace it.
The massive modern grandfather clock that hangs on the foyer wall ticks with religious predictability, grating on my nerves. And though I could go back to my wing of Killian’s massive Seagate mansion for some peace and quiet, my snack of dry roasted edamame compels me to stay. Eating the crunchy snack straight from the bag as I stand at the kitchen island is about the only thing keeping me awake.
That’s what happens after a week straight of clinicals followed by hours upon hours of studying from a dry textbook—even if the subject of medicine does fascinate me. Thankfully, this is my last semester of school. Then I’m off to a real nursing job, where I can put my education to practical use rather than pouring over tomes and sitting in class until my brain feels like it’s made of cotton.
I want to be an ER nurse—a decision I made after floundering around in a general studies major for a year—because I’ve spent so much of my life helping patch up my brother and his men. I know I have an interest in it. Though I would prefer it if I only had to patch up strangers.
The bag of edamame crinkles as I reach in for another handful of my salty snack.
Then I jerk my fingers back as the front door slams open with such force I nearly jump out of my skin. The soft tick of the clock is drowned out by the urgent voices of several men, one of which is unmistakably my brother Killian’s.
“Quinny!” he calls even as I let my textbook fall closed so I can go to the entry to see what the commotion is all about.
“I’m here,” I answer, rounding the corner a moment later.
His green eyes—the same bright shade as mine—are sharp with intensity, his blond curls tousled as if he’s been in another fight, and immediately, I start searching for signs of injury.
Natasha, my new sister-in-law and Killian’s wife of less than two weeks, is halfway down the stairs by the time I step into the foyer. And it never ceases to surprise me how quick and quiet she is. But she’s impossible to miss, as her striking features reflect the same concern as mine. Her pale skin, even whiter in her anxiety, juxtaposes her burgundy hair.
I don’t think she’s any happier about the tension in my brother’s voice than I am.
And with this Italian conflict Killian refuses to tell me about getting uglier by the day, I’ve come to expect the worst. Since the day he came home covered in his own blood and stabbed so badly I genuinely thought he might die, I feel like I haven’t been able to take a full breath.
Since then, the fighting has only gotten more violent, the men more in need of my medical attention than they ever have in the past. And each time that front door bursts open, I dread the possibility that I won’t be able to help.
“I’m fine,” Killian assures Natasha as she runs into his arms.
And she rises onto her toes to kiss him. I’m happy for my oldest brother, who seems completely in love with his new wife. It’s impossible to overlook their intense connection. It’s practically magnetic when they’re in a room together.
I like my new sister-in-law a lot. And at the same time, seeing how happy they are together makes my heart twinge. Because I’ve started to wonder if I’ll ever find that kind of love. Not because I’m too old for that or anything, but the man I’ve had a crush on since I first started even thinking about boys is completely off-limits.
My gaze shifts automatically to Lance, our foster brother and Killian’s right-hand man, as my thoughts turn to him.
And my stomach plummets.
He’s as agonizingly gorgeous as ever with his thick head of walnut-colored locks that fall into his blue eyes as deep as the sea. And he towers above every other man in the room. But his shirt is torn and covered in blood, and his palm is pressed to his chest as if to staunch the crimson flow.
Thankfully, he’s still standing on his own two feet. Which means the wound is probably less lethal than the one Killian sustained. Then again, knowing Lance, he could be at death’s door, and he would continue to suffer silently.
“What happened?” I demand, pointing to the office-turned-medical room I insisted Killian let me have after my fifth impromptu operation in the kitchen last month.
Since then, he’s helped me turn it into a proper infirmary with a foot-pedal treatment table, a stainless-steel roller tray for my tools, and a bright ceiling-mounted medical light on an adjustable spring arm to make my work more manageable. I’ve made a practice of keeping my first-aid space stocked with the essentials for pain relief, anesthesia, disinfecting, and stitching up wounds.
And I’m intensely grateful for that now as I follow Lance down the hall.
“Knife fight,” is all Killian gives me as he joins us, his arm still wrapped around Natasha’s shoulders.
My heart flutters at the memory of how deep Killian was stabbed with a blade, and I hope I’m not in for another one of those today. Not with Lance.Stitching up ugly wounds?Now that, I can do all day long.But treating the injuries of the men I care so much about?Let’s just say the hands-on experience is not worth the anxiety of my loved ones being hurt.
I hate that they risk their lives like they do.
Not that anyone asks me.
Or tells me much of anything, for that matter.