Page 39

THIRTY-FOUR

DAYNA

I jolt awake. Someone’s hammering on the door.

My heart pounds, fear sliding through my ribs as I slip out of bed. What the fuck?

I grab Dash’s T-shirt off the floor and slip into it before I snatch my phone, clutching it to my chest like it’s a weapon.

It beeps in my hand and I almost scream.

Riot:

It’s me at the door. Open up.

I blink then I’m moving. When I drag it open, Riot looks haggard, like he’s aged a decade since I last saw him.

Has something happened to Ivy or Seren?

He steps into the apartment and dread coils in my gut like barbed wire.

If they needed him, he wouldn’t be here.

I feel the shift instantly, the way the ground feels unsteady beneath my feet, and my soul crawls with fear.

“Get dressed,” he orders. “We need to get to the hospital now. Dash’s hurt.”

Time stops. My breathing too.

Dash.

The man I can’t live without is hurt.

My hand presses to my churning belly. Words should come. They don’t. I’ve never been short of them, but I can’t make my tongue work.

I step forward and stagger as my vision rolls.

Riot steadies me as I gasp out, “Is he dead?”

I don’t know what the fuck makes me ask that.

Would the universe be so cruel to take everything from me when I only just found it?

“No. Fuck, no. Last I heard, they were taking him down to surgery.”

My heart is pounding so loud it drowns out whatever he says next, but he gives me a gentle push towards the bedroom.

My feet move automatically. Somehow, I pull on a pair of leggings and snag his hoodie off the back of the door and pull it overtop his T-shirt.

The car ride to the hospital is silent other than my heart pounding and the roar of the engine.

“What happened?”

“Job went bad,” he says. “He was… he was stabbed.”

It feels like that knife is in my chest when he says it. Someone stabbed Dash? I swallow down the bile threatening to rush out of my throat and hug my belly until we’re at the front of the hospital.

I shove the door open before the car’s stopped fully. Riot calls after me, but I run like my speed can save him.

The receptionist looks alarmed as I slam against the counter, breathing heavy. “I’m looking for Rhys Maddox.”

This time, I know his fucking name.

Her fingers move over the keyboard, then a moment later she says, “He’s in the special surgical unit. It’s on the second floor?—”

I don’t hear what else she says, my gaze already lifting to the signage, and as soon as I see the department name, I’m running.

The floors are slippy as I sprint along the corridors, dodging around wheelchairs and slow-moving visitors.

My heart is pounding so hard I’m pretty sure I might throw up, but I don’t stop until I reach the department.

It opens out into a waiting room, a reception desk on one side, a stern-looking woman behind it. I bypass her completely, looking for him.

“Excuse me, you can’t go through there. You can’t—security!”

A huge-looking guy appears out of nowhere, grabbing my arms so tight, it feels like he bruises the skin instantly.

I thrash against his hold, needing to reach Dash. “You don’t understand. I need to see him! He was stabbed! Please?—”

“Hey! Take your fucking hands off her now!”

Riot’s winded, but he doesn’t falter as he shoves the guy off me, grabbing my face between his hands. “You okay?”

I shake my head, still trying to catch my breath from running. “I need to see him.”

“Sit. I’ll find out what’s going on.”

He guides me over to a chair, pushing me into it. His hand lingers on my shoulder for a moment before he goes to the desk.

My lungs burn, my legs too. I breathe deep, trying to calm my overloaded system until Riot returns.

“He’ll be in surgery for another few hours.”

And the wait begins.

The minutes pass like they’re trying to torture my sanity out of me. Riot brings me coffee, food, water, whatever he thinks I need, but I don’t touch any of it. I can’t swallow, can’t think. The only reason I’m still breathing is because my body does it automatically.

It’s late when an older guy in scrubs finally steps through the doors. As soon as he walks towards us, I stand, terrified of what he might say, terrified of what he doesn’t.

Riot comes to his feet with me, his hand pressed to the small of my back, as if he knows my legs might give out.

“You’re the family of Mr. Maddox?”

“She’s his wife,” Riot says.

I would call him on the lie, but I don’t care what label they give me. “Is he okay?” My voice cracks.

“He was stabbed in the lower left abdomen,” the doctor says. “The blade nicked the bowel and caused some internal bleeding, but we got it under control in surgery. We didn’t need to remove any of the bowel, and he’s stable for now. We’ll be watching closely for signs of infection or complications.”

I hear the words, take them in, but my brain can’t make sense of them.

“We’ll reassess in the morning. The nurses are getting him settled, and then you can see him.”

Riot squeezes my shoulder when the doctor walks away and I sink back into the chair, my legs like noodles.

It feels like it takes eons for the nurses to come and get me.

And even though I’m desperate to see him, I paused at the door.

I’m scared at what I might see on the other side. “You want me to come in with you?” Riot asks at my back.

I shake my head, draw in a breath, and step into the room. My feet stutter at the moment I clock the bed.

He’s pale, his chest bare, his tattoos stark against the horrible lighting in this room.

There are little pads on his chest, wires coming out of every part of him—or so it seems.

My gaze lingers on the stark white bandage around his side, the bloodstains screaming at me.

The wound that nearly took him from me.

My throat is so tight, I can’t swallow. I grip the bedrail with one hand and lace my fingers through his with the other.

He’s warm, not cold. Not gone. I let out a sharp sob.

I cry until my throat burns.

And only then do I pull up the plastic chair to the side of the bed and sink into it.

And then I wait. I wait for so long, my legs go numb and my eyes get heavy.

My head is pounding, my gut turning itself inside out, but I don’t move.

I won’t.

I hold his hand, my lips pressed against his knuckles, begging him to wake up.

I don’t know how long I sit for, but my eyes are drifting closed. I was exhausted before this, and now, I’m barely functioning.

I want to sleep.

I want to fix my spine.

Then I feel it—the twitch of his fingers in mine. I snap my head up to see his eyes open, glossy, but looking at me.

I don’t even try to stop the ugly sob that rips out of me.

Relief, fear, everything collides inside me until I can barely breathe through my sobs.

He tries to speak, tries to reassure me, but his eyes flutter shut and he’s gone.

It’s hours before he wakes again, and this time when he does, his eyes are clearer.

“Are you okay?” he rasps, as if he isn’t the one lying in a bed, his insides stitched together.

I laugh through my cry. “You’re the one with a hole in your belly and you’re asking if I’m okay?”

“You look tired.”

“I am. You told me you’d never leave me, and then I get a call hours later that you’re on death’s door. Excuse me if I haven’t had time to catch my usual forty winks.”

The lazy twitch of his lips is the best gift I’ve ever received. He’s in there, fighting, still him.

“You still look beautiful to me.”

I let myself smile. “I look like a half-feral troll.”

He closes his eyes, his voice sleepy. “Woman, would you just let me give you a compliment?”

“I can’t. I’m stressed.” I press my head to his hand and let the pressure in my chest finally ease. “Don’t ever do that to me again. Not ever. I’m not cut out to sit in waiting rooms or hold bedside vigils. And I’m really ugly when I cry.”

His eyes open, glassy and tired. “I’m sorry you had to.” He trails his fingers over the top of my head. “But I told you, I’ll always come back to you. Not even getting stabbed could keep me away.”

I glare at him. “Too soon to joke about that. The stitches aren’t even set yet.”

“I’m not joking.”

I know he’s not. Whatever happens, he’ll always fight to come back to me and that’s everything.