Page 112 of Held-

I barely notice. I'm focused on Brayden.

He’s down on one knee, blood dripping from his chin, one arm wrapped around his ribs. He looks pale, barely upright.

“Brayden,” I whisper, stumbling toward him. My knees hit the cold pavement beside him as I cup his face in my hands. “Oh my God—Brayden.”

He tries to smile, but it comes out as a wince. “I’m fine. Just a scratch.”

“Don’t lie to me!” His blood is warm against my palms. “You need help.”

He glances up at me, “Hey,” he murmurs, rough and unsteady. “Don’t cry, princess. I’m right here.”

The word shatters me. A sob escapes as I press my forehead to his, my tears mixing with the blood on his skin. “You scared me,” I breathe. “You can’t ever do that again.”

He exhales shakily, his hand finding mine. “Don’t plan to.”

Sheriff Miller cuts through the chaos. “EMS is on the way,” he says, his tone gentler now. “He’s gonna be okay, Cece.”

I nod, though his words barely register. All I can do is hold Brayden’s hand and whisper his name, again and again, as the flashing lights wash over us.

Deputies shout orders in the background, Ethan’s protests rising and fading as they push him into the back of the cruiser. But the only thing that matters is the slow, steady rhythm of Brayden’s breathing.

I don’t let go until the paramedics arrive. Even then, I stay close, my fingers still laced with his, refusing to be separated.

The night smells like blood and asphalt and winter. The world feels broken and whole at the same time.

And as Brayden squeezes my hand, whispering, “Told you I’ve got you, princess,” I realize—he does.

He always has.

CECE

Hospitals are filledwith two things: people who are dying, and people who are terrified someone they love might be. I fall into the second category, watching the ER doctor probe at Brayden's jaw with latex-covered fingers.

“Can you open your mouth wider for me?” The doctor’s voice is clinically detached, treating Brayden’s split lip and the ugly purple swelling along his jawline as if they’re nothing more than an interesting puzzle to solve.

Brayden tries to comply, wincing as the movement stretches his busted lip. Fresh blood wells up from the crack, and I fightthe urge to slap the doctor's hands away. He's been poking at Brayden's injuries for ten minutes now, each prod making my stomach clench tighter.

“You're lucky,” the doctor announces, stepping back to make notes on his tablet. “No fracture to the mandible, but you've got significant contusions and soft tissue damage. That tire iron could have shattered your jaw if it had hit just a bit harder.”

I swallow hard at the word “shattered,” the image of Ethan swinging that metal bar at Brayden's face replaying in my mind for the hundredth time. Two inches to the left, and we might be in a trauma center instead of the ER.

“What about his ribs?” I ask. “He could barely breathe in the ambulance.”

“X-rays show bruised ribs, not broken,” the doctor says, scrolling through something on his tablet. “He is going to be in significant pain for a while, but there is no internal bleeding or organ damage.”

He pauses, then adds, “We are concerned about a concussion. His responses were slow when he came in, so we will need to monitor him closely for the next several hours.”

Relief floods through me so intensely I grip the edge of the exam table to stay upright. Bruised, not broken. He's going to be okay.

“So he can go home?” I ask, already calculating how I'm going to get him comfortable in the guesthouse.

The doctor looks up from his tablet with a frown. “I'd like to keep him overnight for observation. Head injuries can be tricky, and given the force of impact?—”

“No.” Brayden's voice is rough but firm, the single syllable brooking no argument. “I'm not staying.”

“Mr. Cole, I strongly recommend?—”

“I said no.” Brayden shifts, grimacing as he puts weight on his elbow to sit up straighter. “Just give me whatever paperwork I need to sign.”