Page 28

Kabir

Blood soaked through the fabric of my jacket like water through paper. Too fast. Too much.

Her lips trembled, her lashes fluttered like she was trying to stay with me. Her gaze found mine—clouded, soft, trusting. That look alone shattered me. It was love, even now. Even like this.

I had no idea what I was saying to her. To make sure she kept her eyes on me. Kept looking at me with that love that had seemed unbreakable just minutes ago.

It was now ebbing away alongside the blood pouring out of her. Too much blood.

Then suddenly her eyes blanked. She looked resigned—at peace.

No.

My tears dripped on my blood soaked hand. The hand that was pressed against her chest.

I was chanting. Praying. Saying something I had no clue about when her eyes drifted shut.

No, no, no!

“Shadow. Titan,” I rasped into the comms again, hands shaking as I adjusted the pressure. “Come in. Fuck!”

Delara’s voice finally came through. “Sorry, Cipher. West exit. Car’s waiting. Black convertible.”

I nodded, though no one could see it. My hands were slick with her blood.

“You hear that, Heer?” I leaned down, my lips brushing her forehead lightly. “We’ve got a way out. You’re gonna be okay. You’ll be okay.”

But she didn’t respond. She was too still.

I felt her pulse with trembling fingers—still there, but weak. Shit. Her heart had to be intact based on the entry point, but we were losing time. I tore the jacket tighter around her chest, binding it as best I could to slow the bleeding. Elevate. Compress. Don’t fucking cry anymore.

Too late.

Tears ran unchecked down my face, dropping onto her cheeks. My sob hitched. I hadn’t cried in years. Not like this.

“Stay,” I whispered brokenly. “Please. I’m not done loving you.”

I lifted her into my arms, gripping her like a lifeline as I carried her toward the West exit. The hallways blurred past. Every step felt too slow. My legs didn’t feel like mine. My brain was static. Just her. Just her breath. Just her heartbeat. Please.

The night air hit me like a slap. A man held out the keys to the convertible. He didn’t look like the valet—a massive scar stood out on his cheekbone, down his jaw.

I didn’t question it.

Securing Lia in the passenger seat of the car, I lowered her seat so she was reclined, jacket still pressed tight to her wound. I kissed her forehead, whispered something—I didn’t even know what.

Then I jumped into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and peeled out of the White House driveway.

That’s when I saw the headlights.

Fuck.

“They’re tailing me,” I growled into car comms. “I’ve got pursuit. Repeat, I’ve got pursuit!”

Delara’s voice was firm, even. “We see them. We’re on your tail. Covering you.”

No response from Dylan. Of course not. His baby sister was bleeding out in my car.

A shot rang out. Another. I ducked. I reached over to Lia and lowered her seat even more.

“I’ve got you,” I whispered again, as if the repetition could make it real.

I gripped the wheel with one hand, the other on her pulse. Still there. Still weak.

The exit to the ER zipped past. Shit. No way to take that turn at this speed—not with shooters behind me.

“Fuck it,” I muttered and yanked the wheel.

I spun the car, full 180, tires screaming against the asphalt as I hit the button. The roof retracted with a mechanical groan. The convertible twisted against the inertia and halted, facing the oncoming traffic now.

I reached under my seat, yanked out the rifle, and stood up slightly—propping the rifle over my shoulder.

Three shots. Four. Five.

One car’s tire blew out, spinning it off the road. Another slammed into the barrier and flipped.

One still followed. Not stopping.

Then—blur. Two motorcycles zipped past me from opposite sides. Black helmets, black suits. Like ghosts with guns.

They stopped—flanking me—and fired in perfect sync, disabling the final car, its hood exploding into flames as it collided with the concrete edge of the highway.

I didn’t get time to wonder who the hell they were—because Delara’s SUV drifted into the scene next, doors flung open, Dylan firing from inside while Delara took the wheel. More cars joined the fray and I quickly let Dylan and Delara take over.

I threw the rifle back in, floored the gas, and surged toward the entry ramp—still going the wrong way on the highway.

My heart was pounding so loud I thought I’d rupture something.

I didn’t breathe until I screeched into the ER parking lot.

I skidded the car to a halt just outside the entrance. Tires screamed. Jumped out quickly, I circled the car to get to Amelia.

“I NEED HELP!” I roared. My voice didn’t even sound human anymore.

Triage team rushed out. Two nurses and a trauma doctor with a gurney. One of them yanked the passenger door open. The moment they saw the blood, their movements sharpened.

They assessed her in the trauma bay.

I mumbled what I could. Giving them enough information about her condition.

“Female, thirty-two, GSW to lower chest. Entry wound only. No visible exit,” one of them announced, already checking her neck.

“Barely palpable carotid pulse. Get her in trauma room three, now!”

They hoisted her onto the gurney. My jacket—soaked—fell away, revealing how pale she was beneath the blood. I stumbled after them, my legs barely holding me up.

They settled her in the trauma room. Machines quickly connecting to her.

“BP 60 over palp!”

“Pulse faint. Respirations shallow—”

And then—

“Flatline. We’ve got no pulse. Starting compressions.”

“No, no, no…” I staggered forward, trying to reach her, but someone held me back.

“Sir, you have to let us—”

Fuck no. I removed the person’s grip on my arm violently.

“Push one of epi, now!”

“Charging—clear!”

Her body jumped on the gurney.

“Still no rhythm. Again—charge to 200, clear!”

I couldn’t breathe. I was drowning in her blood, her silence, the way her hand had gone limp when I’d tried to hold it one last time.

“Prep for intubation—”

“Still no pulse. Going again. Charge to 300—”

The hallway was spinning, but I stood there. Frozen. Watching the love of my life die right in front of me.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare die on me.”

I whispered helplessly—collapsing on my knees, my fingers clutching my hair painfully, as sobs racked my exhausted body.

???

The blood had dried now.

Her blood.

I didn’t know how long I’d been staring at my damn hands when a pair of black heels stepped into my line of sight.

It felt like an intrusion.

A disruption to this numbing, comfortable void I had built around myself.

I didn’t want company. I didn’t want someone to tell me it was going to be okay—because there was no comfort in pretending I’d ever see those gray eyes again.

I tried to hold on to the last memory of them.

The way they looked at me.

No fear. No pain. Just… trust.

Like she knew.

Did she know?

Fuck.

Had that really been her last moment?

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? Or was that just grief?

Footsteps neared, sharp and fast.

“Hannah Chawla’s family?” the doctor asked.

That was us.

“I’m her husband,” I rasped as I stood up and nodded at Dylan. “And he’s her brother.”

The doctor nodded. “Please follow me.”

I followed. Drifted.

We were led into a private room.

“The surgery was successful. I want to start with that.”

A breath. Ragged. Dylan’s or mine—I couldn’t fucking tell anymore.

We sat down as he introduced himself, then continued.

“The GSW to her lower chest resulted in significant blood loss. We removed the bullet and repaired the lung damage. She also has three broken ribs, a fracture in left arm, and a laceration above her right eye. The other superficial injuries should heal quickly. She’s stable, and we’re moving her to the post-op ICU now. ”

I should’ve been relieved. But then he kept going.

“But we do need to inform you… we’re unsure of the extent of brain damage. She coded once in the ER and twice on the OR table. Each time, it took us over sixty seconds to get her back.”

My breath stuttered. The world tilted.

“She was down long enough that oxygen deprivation to the brain is a real concern.”

He paused, then continued like he hadn’t just said something that shattered my bones.

“I’ve also been informed of the arrangements to transfer her to New York via a medical helicopter.

It’s possible, but only if she remains stable for the next twenty-four hours.

If her vitals drop again, I’ll advise against moving her.

I must warn you, there’s still a chance she may not wake up.

Or… code again during the ninety-minute transfer. ”

I swallowed. It felt like choking on glass.

“Do you have any questions?”

I glanced at Dylan. He was mute. Hadn’t spoken a single word since she went down.

I cleared my throat, barely. “What kind of brain damage are we talking about? Best and worst case.”

The doctor gave me a soft, tired nod.

“Best case? No lasting damage. I’ve seen patients in her age and health bounce back within a few weeks. She might have some short-term memory gaps or disorientation, but she could recover fully.”

“And worst?”

He hesitated.

“Worst case… she may regain consciousness but have impaired cognitive function. Memory issues. Difficulty speaking or moving. Emotional dysregulation. If the brain’s frontal lobe suffered… she might not be the same person.”

My heart cracked. Actually cracked.

“Thank you,” I whispered, but I wasn’t sure who I was thanking. Or why.

The doctor gave a sympathetic nod and left the room.

I looked down at my hands again.

Still bloody.

Still hers.

And for the first time since the shot rang out—I felt myself break.

Quietly.

Utterly.

Because I couldn’t imagine a world where Amelia didn’t wake up. Didn’t look at me with those stormy eyes. Didn’t call me Mr. Gill with that crooked smile.

I had no idea how to exist in a world where she wasn’t fully… her.

But more than anything—I had no idea how to exist in one where she didn’t exist at all.