Page 143 of Finding Denver

The name has my heart hammering, and I’m surprised by the emotion that swells within me. “Denver?”

“Sebastian!” Nurse Hollins shouts, and I tear my gaze from Denver and go to the man they just brought in. “He’s crashing!”

“Crash pads.” Scissors tear apart a T-shirt, and pads are placed across his chest. His body jerks at the surge of power. Again. And again. His heartbeat returns.

Dr. Hues arrives, tying her hair back as she rushes over. “I’m here.”

She takes over the man and I go back to Denver. She’s blinking fast, staring at the ceiling, her movement limited by the neck brace. “Denver, out of ten, how much pain is your head?”

“Ten,” she whispers.

I inspect her dust-filled hair, the mattingof blood. “Nurse Hollins,” I say, nodding at Denver’s good arm. Nurse Hollins takes hold of it firmly. “Denver, I need you to take a deep breath in for me.” She does, and she screams as I snap her shoulder back into the socket. “Good, you did good.”

“Sebastian,” Denver pants. “Don’t let Ranger in here.”

I search her face. “He’s in New York?”

“Yes, we don’t know where. He …” She suddenly tries to move. “Colt!”

“Denver, you cannot move until you’ve had scans,” I say, holding her down as gently as I can.

“I need to know if—” She breathes quickly. “Did someone come in with me? A man?”

“Yes, but?—”

“Alive?”

“Yes.”

“Does he have tattoos?” she asks frantically. “A robin on his collarbone. Please, check if he has it, Sebastian, please?—”

I swear under my breath and stride over to the other patient. He has a breathing tube in, eyes closed. He’s covered in blood, and I move his T-shirt aside, scanning his collarbone. I can’t see anything. Plenty of tattoos, but?—

I snatch out a paper towel and run it under the sink, rubbing at his skin.

And it’s there. A small robin on his collarbone, head tilted in intrigue.

“Colt!” a man’s voice bellows. I turn to see someone barreling through the ER doors. His hair is silver, but he looks around my age.

“Fuck me, that’s Alistair Chase,” Dr. Hues says from beside me. “This must be Colt Harland.”

Colt Harland. I treated this man not twelve hours ago, and he’s already back?

“Irish crime family,” Hues adds. “Explains the explosion, I guess.”

Of fucking course.

“Colt, fuck.” The man is at Colt’s side. “Is he okay?”

“We’re not sure yet,” I say, eyeing him with caution. I expected all these men to be like Ranger, but this man seems genuinely … worried. “Are you a relation?”

“Friend,” he says, his gaze darting over Colt’s face. “Was he alone?”

“No, Denver Luxe is with him,” I say, and he straightens.

“Where?”

I hesitate. Denver didn’t say she wanted this man to be okay. She wanted me to identify him, but that was all. For all I know, this Colt was trying to kill her and got caught up in the mess.