Page 15 of Eden and her Mercenary (Changing of the Guards)

Royal

T he sharp crack of a gunshot shattered the peace of the afternoon. I whirled around just as Eden's body jerked backward, her eyes widening in shock. Blood blossomed across her shirt, a crimson stain spreading with terrifying speed.

"Eden!" I lunged forward as she crumpled, catching her before she hit the ground. Her weight drove us both to our knees.

Stella erupted into frantic barking, circling us protectively as another shot splintered the wood of the porch railing inches from my head. I dragged Eden behind the solid portion of the railing, shielding her body with mine.

"Royal," she gasped, her voice already thin and reedy. "What—"

"Don't talk," I ordered, pressing my hand against the wound in her shoulder, blood seeping between my fingers. "Ryker!" I bellowed. "We're taking fire!"

My brother was already in motion, weapon drawn as he sprinted toward the tree line where the shots had originated. Wren dropped flat behind the half-built kennel wall, pulling out her phone.

"Stay with me," I murmured to Eden, whose face had gone alarmingly pale. Her breathing came in short, shallow gasps, each one seeming more difficult than the last. "Look at me, Eden. Focus on my voice."

Her eyes found mine, pain and confusion swimming in their depths. "Hurts," she whispered.

"I know, sweetheart. Help's coming." I tore off my shirt, wadding it against the wound. The bullet had caught her high in the chest, too close to vital structures for comfort. "Wren!" I called. "We need an ambulance, now!"

Eden's hand clutched weakly at my arm. "Stella," she managed. "Keep her safe."

"You'll keep her safe yourself," I insisted, hearing the desperation in my own voice. "This is just a setback. You're going to be fine."

But her eyes were beginning to lose focus, lids fluttering as shock set in. Blood continued to seep through my makeshift bandage, her life literally slipping through my fingers.

Wren appeared beside us, her face grim. "Ambulance is fifteen minutes out. Mack's on his way, five minutes tops."

"She doesn't have five minutes," I snarled, gathering Eden into my arms. "Get the truck started. We're meeting them halfway."

As I lifted her, Eden's head lolled against my shoulder, her skin clammy and cold. Stella followed, whining anxiously, trying to stay close as I carried Eden to the truck. Wren slid behind the wheel while I climbed into the back seat, cradling Eden across my lap.

"Stay with me," I kept repeating, applying pressure to the wound with one hand while the other checked her pulse—rapid, thready, fading. "Eden, please. I can't lose you. Not when we've just found each other."

Her eyes fluttered open briefly, finding mine with effort. "Not... your fault," she whispered, blood bubbling at the corner of her mouth—a very bad sign. Her lung was hit.

"Don't you dare say goodbye," I ordered, my voice breaking. "This isn't over. We're just getting started, remember? The Way Station, our home. Stella needs you. I need you."

Wren drove like a demon possessed, the truck fishtailing on the curves as we raced down the mountain. Through the rear window, I could see Ryker's Jeep following, dust billowing behind him.

"Two minutes to meet up with Mack," Wren called over her shoulder. "How is she?"

I didn't answer. Couldn't. Eden's breathing had become erratic, each inhale a struggle that seemed to drain what little strength she had left. Her blood soaked my jeans, warm and sticky, an obscene reminder of how quickly life could drain away.

"Eden," I whispered, leaning close to her ear. "I love you. Do you hear me? I love you, and you are not allowed to leave me. Not like this."

Her eyelids fluttered but didn't open. Her pulse under my fingers skipped, faltered, then resumed its weakening rhythm.

Mack's truck appeared around the bend, screeching to a halt as Wren pulled alongside. The retired vet jumped out, medical bag in hand, his face setting into the focused mask of a battlefield medic.

"Move over," he ordered, climbing into the back seat. His practiced hands immediately found the wound, probing gently before reaching for his bag. "Tension pneumothorax. Lung's collapsing."

He pulled out what looked like a large needle with a catheter attached. "Hold her steady," he instructed, positioning the needle between her ribs. "This is going to hurt her, but it's necessary."

I cradled Eden's head, murmuring apologies as Mack inserted the needle. A rush of air escaped, and Eden's next breath seemed slightly less labored.

"That buys us time, not a solution," Mack said grimly, already packing the wound with gauze. " She needs surgery, blood, proper equipment. The ambulance—"

"Here," Wren announced as flashing lights appeared in the distance.

The next minutes were a blur of paramedics, urgent voices, medical terminology I barely understood. They transferred Eden to a stretcher, hooked up IVs, attached monitors that beeped with concerning irregularity.

"I’m coming with her," I stated, not a question.

The paramedic nodded, stepping aside to let me climb into the ambulance. As the doors closed, I caught a glimpse of Stella watching from Wren's arms, her eyes fixed on Eden with an intensity that mirrored my own desperation.

The 45-minute journey to the hospital in Springbank passed in a haze of fear and medical interventions. Eden coded once—her heart stopping completely—before being shocked back to life by the grim-faced paramedic. I sat clutching her limp hand, making promises to whatever power might be listening.

At the hospital, they whisked her away behind swinging doors marked "Authorized Personnel Only," leaving me blood-soaked and hollow in the sterile waiting room. Ryker arrived minutes later, his expression thunderous .

"Junction," he said without preamble. "Found shell casings with their markings. Sniper was set up about 400 yards from the cabin."

Cold fury replaced the fear in my veins. "They were after Stella."

"No." Ryker's voice was flat. "The shot placement, the angle, they were after Eden specifically. This was a targeted hit."

"Why? She's just a dog transporter. She's not a threat to them."

"Unless she saw something or knows something." Ryker paced the small waiting area. "Or unless they think she does."

A terrible thought struck me. "Harrison. She helped us steal the equipment, remove the implant. What if they think Eden has information about the program? About what they were really doing?"

"Then they won't stop with one attempt," Ryker concluded grimly. "If she survives—"

"When," I corrected fiercely. "When she survives."

"When she survives," he amended, "they'll try again. We need to get ahead of this."

I looked down at my hands, still stained with Eden's blood despite my attempts to wash them clean. "First, we make sure she lives. Then we make them pay. "

Hours later, a surgeon in blood-spattered scrubs approached us. His face gave away nothing as he introduced himself.

"Mr. O'Toole? I'm Dr. Reeves. I operated on Ms. Wade."

My heart stuttered at the name. "Reeves?"

"Yes." He consulted his clipboard. "The bullet penetrated her right lung and fragmented, causing significant damage. We've removed all fragments, repaired the lung, and transfused four units of blood."

"Will she live?" I asked bluntly.

Dr. Reeves met my gaze steadily. "The next 48 hours are critical. She's young and otherwise healthy, which works in her favor. But I won't sugarcoat this—her injuries were severe."

"When can I see her?"

"She's in recovery now. Once she's stabilized, we'll move her to the ICU. You can see her briefly then." He hesitated. "Are you family?"

"Yes," I said without hesitation. "I'm her husband."

The lie came easily, necessary to ensure I'd have access to her. Dr. Reeves nodded, either believing me or choosing not to challenge the claim.

"I'll have a nurse come get you when she's settled."

As he walked away, Ryker leaned in. "Reeves. Same name as— "

"Junction's security chief," I finished. "Could be coincidence."

"We don't believe in coincidences," Ryker reminded me.

"No, we don't." I pulled out my phone. "Call Declan. We need eyes on this place, background on every staff member who might come near Eden."

"Already done," came Declan's voice from the doorway. He entered, followed by Wren, who carried a small duffel bag. "Hospital's covered. Two of our people are posing as orderlies, one as administrative staff. No one gets to Eden without going through them first."

Wren handed me the bag. "Clean clothes, basic necessities. How is she?"

"Alive," I said, the word both prayer and promise. "For now."

"And Stella?" I suddenly remembered the dog, left behind in the chaos.

"At our house," Wren assured me. "Safe in the panic room with round-the-clock monitoring. She's agitated, keeps looking for Eden."

The thought of Stella waiting, not understanding why Eden had disappeared, twisted something in my chest. "She knows something's wrong."

"Dogs always do," Wren said softly .

A nurse appeared, her scrubs pristine compared to the surgeon's. "Mr. O'Toole? Your wife is being moved to the ICU now. You can see her for five minutes."

I followed her through labyrinthine hallways, trying to memorize the route, noting security cameras and exit points out of habit. The ICU was a hushed space of beeping monitors and subdued lighting, each glass-walled room containing its own private battle between life and death.

Eden lay in the third room, so still and pale she barely seemed present. Tubes and wires connected her to machines that breathed for her, monitored her, and medicated her. A ventilator pushed air into her lungs with mechanical precision, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room.

I approached slowly, almost afraid to touch her. She looked smaller somehow, diminished by the medical apparatus surrounding her. A bandage covered most of her right shoulder and chest, spots of blood already seeping through the white gauze.

"Hey," I whispered, carefully taking her hand. It was cold, unresponsive. "I'm here. You're safe now."

The only response was the steady beep of the heart monitor, each pulse a small victory against the alternative.

"The surgeon says you're going to pull through. Just need to rest, let your body heal." I stroked her hand, willing warmth back into it. "Stella's safe too. Waiting for you to come home."

Home. The word caught in my throat. Our home, which should have been a sanctuary, had become the site of violence—again.

The familiar weight of guilt settled. I choked back the lump in my throat as new tears streamed down my face.

I didn't care who witnessed it. I laid my head on the bed and cried for the first time since I was a kid, vowing to hunt down the person who did this to her.