Page 38 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

I straighten in my seat, trying to pull myself together. Talon needs me strong, not broken. I can fall apart later, when I'm alone.

The hospital looms ahead. Oz pulls into the emergency entrance.

“I'll find somewhere to park,” Oz orders as Z helps me from the car. “You two go ahead.”

The automatic doors slide open with a pneumatic hiss, blasting us with sterile air and fluorescent light that makes my skin look even more ghostly than I feel. My legs are moving automatically, Z's arm around my waist, the only thing keeping me from collapsing.

“Coast Guard patient,” Z tells the intake nurse, his voice shifting into that authoritative tone that makes people snap to attention. “Talon St. James. Just brought in.”

The nurse's fingers fly across her keyboard. “Are you family?”

“Yes,” I say before Z can respond.

“He's in trauma bay four. They're prepping him for surgery.” She gestures toward heavy double doors. “Through there, but you'll need to wait in the surgical lounge.”

The corridor beyond feels endless, the beeping of machines and hushed tones of medical staff.

The surgical lounge appears at the end of the hallway—a small, sterile room with uncomfortable looking couches and outdated magazines scattered across coffee tables. My body moves on autopilot as Z guides me to a worn-out couch.

“Sit,” he says gently, lowering me down before pulling out his phone. His fingers move quickly across the screen as he texts Oz our location.

Z settles beside me. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t offer empty reassurances. Instead, he simply takes my hand in his, thumb tracing slow, steady circles against my palm. The rhythm steadies me, drawing me back into myself one heartbeat at a time.

The door slides open, and Oz appears, his expression carefully composed. Our eyes lock, and something unspoken passes between us—a shared pain we’re both struggling to contain.

“Any news?” he asks, crossing to sit on my other side.

I shake my head, unable to form words around the lump in my throat.

The door opens again before Oz can respond. A woman in scrubs steps inside. “St. James Family?”

“That’s us,” Z instantly answers.

“Your relationship to the patient?”

“Girlfriend,” Oz answers for me, pointing in my direction. “We’re his brothers.”

“Mr. St. James has a fairly serious bullet wound. It was a through-and-through to his left shoulder, but he lost a significant amount of blood. Hypothermia has complicated the matters.” Her clinical assessment does nothing to soften the blow.

“The surgical team is removing bullet fragments and repairing tissue damage now.”

“When can we see him?” Z's voice remains steady, though I feel the tension vibrating through his body where our sides touch.

“Once he's out of surgery and stabilized in recovery. It could be several hours.” Her expression softens slightly as she takes in my shattered appearance. “There’s a private waiting area for the families of emergency procedures. I can show?—”

“No,” I cut her off, the word sharp and sudden even to my own ears. “We'll stay right here. Thank you.”

The nurse gives a tight nod, clearly accustomed to family members in crisis. As she turns to leave, a woman in a crisp Coast Guard uniform appears in the doorway behind her. Lieutenant Commander Wilson.

The nurse excuses herself as the officer steps into the room. My heart hammers against my ribs as I push myself to my feet, swaying slightly until Z's steadies me.

“Did you find him?” The question bursts from me before she can speak. “Alex, tall, blond hair, blue eyes, probably wearing a suit. Did you?—”

“We have three vessels in the search area, but visibility is extremely low at this time of night. We are suspending our search shortly,” she confirms, her professional demeanor softening slightly. “The recovery operation will resume in the morning at first light.”

Recovery. Not rescue. The clinical term slices through me like a blade.

“What happened out there?”

Lieutenant Commander Wilson gestures for me to sit back down, her expression grave but not unkind. “We're still piecing that together. Your friend, Talon, was conscious only briefly when we pulled him from the water. He mentioned his name and the number that I called before he passed out.”

I sink back onto the couch.

“What about the wreckage?” Oz inquiries.

The officer's hesitation tells me everything before she speaks. “We observed debris consistent with a high-velocity impact and subsequent explosion. Multiple vessels were involved. At this time, that is the extent of what I can share with you.”

“What about...” my voice falters, the question sticking in my throat like broken glass. “What about bodies?”

The lieutenant's expression shifts almost imperceptibly. “We've recovered several remains from the water. Though none of them match your description. I’m sorry.”

Hope and dread war within me. No body means there's still a chance, however infinitesimal, that Alex survived. But it also means he could be drifting somewhere in the cold Atlantic, alone and beyond our reach.

“I need to see the site,” I say suddenly, pushing myself up from the couch. “Take me there.”

“Vesper,” Oz catches my wrist, gentle but firm. “That's not possible.”

“I'm afraid he's right,” Lieutenant Wilson says. “The search area is restricted to Coast Guard personnel. And with night operations suspended until dawn?—”

“Then I'll wait until dawn,” I counter, desperation giving my voice a brittle edge. “I need to be there.”

Z rises beside me, his arm sliding around my waist. “What she means is that we appreciate being kept informed of any developments.” His eyes meet mine, a silent plea to stand down. “We understand you're doing everything possible.”

The officer nods, her demeanor snapping back to composed efficiency.

“I'll have updates sent directly to you as the search continues.” She produces a business card, which Oz takes.

“If your friend regains consciousness and can provide more details about what happened, please contact me immediately.”

After she leaves, I collapse back onto the couch, the momentary surge of adrenaline evaporating as quickly as it came. The harsh lights make my head pound, each throb a reminder that this nightmare is real.

“I can't just sit here. I can't...I need to do something.”

“Right now, the best thing we can do is be here for Talon. He's going to need us when he wakes up.”

“And Alex needs us now,” I counter, tears threatening again. “He could be out there, hurt, alone.”

“If Alex is out there,” Z interrupts gently, “he's doing everything in his power to get back to you. You know that. But right now, we focus on what we can control.”

The logic is sound, but it does nothing to ease the ache spreading through my chest. I try to breathe through the rising panic, sharp and relentless, threatening to pull me under.

The minutes crawl by with excruciating slowness, each tick of the wall clock landing like a hammer against my nerves.

Z can’t stay still, pacing the length of the waiting room before sinking back beside me, only to repeat the cycle.

Oz hasn’t moved from his place by the window, his silhouette as still and unyielding as stone.

I bite my thumbnail until it bleeds, the metallic tang on my tongue grounding me.

A brutal reminder that I’m still here, still breathing—while Alex might not be.

Every time I close my eyes, I see him in the water, reaching for a surface that never comes.

I force them open again, fixing my gaze on the ugly pattern in the waiting room carpet to keep the images from overtaking me.

“St. James Family?”

My head snaps up. A woman in blue scrubs stands in the doorway. The three of us rise in unison, instinctively drawing closer.

“That’s us,” Oz says.

She nods, checking her clipboard. “The surgery was successful.”

Relief crashes into me so hard my knees nearly give out.

“Dr. Patel was able to repair the tissue damage and thoroughly clean the wound to reduce the risk of infection. He’s in recovery now,” she continues, glancing back at the chart. “His vitals are stable, but we’re monitoring him closely for complications from the hypothermia and blood loss.”

“When can we see him?" The question bursts from me, my voice cracking.

“We can allow one visitor at a time for now,” she replies, her expression softening as she takes in my desperate state. “Just for a few minutes until he's moved to a regular room. He’ll need to stay overnight. Possibly a couple of days."

Before either twin can speak, I step forward. “I'll go.” It's not a request. “I need to see him.”

Z and Oz exchange a quick glance, having one of those silent conversations only twins can manage. Oz nods slightly. “Of course. We'll be right here.”

The nurse gestures for me to follow her through a set of double doors. The recovery ward is quiet.

“He's still groggy from the anesthesia,” she warns, stopping before a partially drawn curtain.

I nod mechanically, steeling myself for what awaits beyond that thin fabric barrier.

Nothing could have prepared me for the sight of Talon lying there, his skin nearly as white as the sheets beneath him.

Tubes snake from his arms, monitors beeping a steady rhythm that should be reassuring but only amplifies the fragility of his condition.

The broad shoulders that carried me when I couldn't walk are now swallowed by the hospital gown, making him look smaller somehow, diminished.

I approach the bed silently, afraid that even my breathing might disturb him. His left shoulder is heavily bandaged.

“Talon,” I sob, reaching for his hand. His fingers are cold, so cold, and I clutch them between both of mine, trying to transfer my warmth into him. “I'm here.”

His eyelids flutter open at the sound of my voice. “Vesper.” My name comes out as a rasp, his throat raw from the breathing tube they must have used during surgery.

“Alex,” he croaks, his fingers suddenly gripping mine with surprising strength. “He?—”

“Shh,” I soothe, though my heart hammers painfully against my ribs. “Don't try to talk.”

“No,” Talon struggles, his voice strengthening with urgency. “You need to know.” He attempts to sit up, wincing as pain shoots through his injured shoulder. The monitors beside him beep more rapidly in response.

“Please, Talon. You need to rest.”

“He saved me, Vesper.” The words tumble out, each one a blade slicing deeper into my heart. “They had us surrounded. The boat was dead in the water. He—” his voice cracks, “—he pushed me overboard.”

I can't breathe. The sterile hospital air turns thick, unbreathable as Talon's words paint a vivid, terrible pictures in my mind.

“He rammed our boat into theirs,” Talon continues. “Explosion. So much fire...” His fingers tighten around mine with surprising strength. “He knew what he was doing, Vesper. He chose to?—”

“Stop,” I plea. “Please stop.”

But Talon's grip only tightens. “He said to tell you he kept his promise.” His voice cracks on the last word. “He made sure I came back to you.”

As the words spill from his lips, my world shatters around me.

The promise I had begged him not to make come true. Alex is gone.