Page 116 of BounBound By Scars

No.

No. No. No.

I wasn’t ready for that to be it.

I wasn’t fucking ready.

I needed to move. To stand. To scream. To throw a chair across the fucking hospital.

But I didn’t. I just sat there, hands caked in her blood. I didn’t even know when I’d taken this seat in the ICU waiting room.

Hard. Plastic. Cold.

A hand landed on my shoulder, and I squeezed my eyes shut like that would make it disappear.

“Sebastian is arranging a bird for us to fly her back once she’s stable. He also took care of the MPDC. Cops won’t be a problem.”

Delara’s voice was steady. Functional. Unbreakable. I hated it.

I hated that she was still functioning, still making calls, still planning ahead.

I didn’t nod.

Couldn’t.

She sat beside me, and I opened my eyes again. My hands—fucking hell—my hands were still red.

They shouldn’t be. They shouldn’t still be red.

“We’re not safe in D.C.,” Delara added. “We’ve got a small team securing the hospital. Should be airtight for the next few hours.”

I didn’t respond. She could’ve told me we were being bombed and I’d have done absolutely nothing.

Let them come.

I wasn’t leaving her behind.

I was still staring at the blood when Dylan gripped my hands. Held them like it would do something.

Warmth. Grounding. Steady.

A tear slipped down my cheek anyway. I didn’t even feel it. Just the burn in its wake.

Dylan knelt in front of me, but I couldn’t look at him.

I couldn’t look into those same gray eyes. The ones that reminded me of hers.

A sob cracked the silence like lightning.

Mine?

His?

I didn’t know.

But when I looked up, Dylan was staring at me—red-rimmed eyes wide and unblinking.

Was he angry? Was there blame in them?