Page 38 of Freeing Denver

Confident steps interrupt our discussion, and Sebastian appears. He’s dressed in gym attire, and while he sits on the coffee table in front of me and busies himself opening his bag, I try to ignore the shame that’s choking my throat.

“Look at me,” Sebastian says softly, and I do, quickly wincing as he shines a light in my eye.

He remains expressionless as he asks me to follow his fingers, and I’m aware that each response I give to his questions is more clipped than the last, but I don’t want him here. Denver called him, despite my protests that I was fine.

“You woke up from a weeklong coma a few days ago,” Sebastian says. “You had swelling on the brain and a severe concussion. And from the looks of this”—he nods at my knuckles—“you thought fighting was a good idea.”

Irritation sparks under my skin. “Gotta work.”

“Don’t be a fucking child, Colt,” Taf snaps.

I grit my teeth, tempted to lean further into being a mouthy prick, but decide against it.

Sebastian says, “The pain. How bad is it?”

Closing my eyes, I take a breath. “Bad.”

“Out of ten.”

“… Eight. Maybe nine.”

“Are you sleeping?”

I rub my forehead. “Sometimes it’s all I do.”

“Then your body needs it.” Sebastian scribbles on a pad, tears off the paper, and holds it out to Taf. My friend takes it, gives me a warning glare, then leaves. “I’ve prescribed stronger painkillers. You will take them sparingly. You will rest. No fighting. No working.”

“I have to work.”

“Then your recovery will take longer. You will continue to get agitated. You might even end up back in the hospital. You’ll also continue to piss off Denver, who, unless you hadn’t already noticed, isn’t a woman to piss off.” Just hearing her name is a reminder of how I acted. And Alistair … I said things to him I didn’t even mean.

Despite the urge to argue, I don’t. What can I even say? So, I sit like a scolded child as Sebastian stands and packs away his things.

He eyes my suit and says, “Denver said you were at a funeral.”

I focus on my hands and nod. “My brother’s.”

“Wilder is dead?”

Our eyes meet, and I frown. “You knew him?”

“Yeah, I knew him.” He places his bag down and sits on the coffee table in front of me. “Your brother killed mine.”

It’s like a jolt to my system. My heart picks up, and I straighten as Sebastian keeps his gaze fixed on mine.

And then I remember him.

He treated me after the fire. Said he took two bullets in the back.

Bullets from my brother’s gun.

“You’re Sebastian Whitlock.” Ethan’s best friend. His brother was Archer Adler. Two lives stolen by my brother. “You were at Denver’s wedding.”

He nods slowly, his shoulders dipping slightly. “I lost my brother and my best friend that night. Almost lost my career in the months after it.” He looks at his hands. They’re trembling. “I spent my life wanting to help people and suddenly, I wanted someone dead. I wanted Wilder to hurt so badly that I’d dream up all these scenarios. Ones where I got the gun off him. Ones where he died and not Archer. Sometimes thinking about his death was the only thing that helped me sleep.” He closes his hands into fists, frowning at them as if confused. “Now I know he’s dead, and … I feel nothing.”

The admission should anger me. This stranger is saying that my brother’s death doesn’t warrant sympathy. It warrants … nothing.

But sympathy and kind words are all I’ve had all day, and I rejected them, didn’t I?