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CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Evangeline

Blood seeps through the gauze, soaking my hands as I press harder against Knight's shoulder. The coppery smell of it fills the air, mixing with the sharp scent of antiseptic. The table beneath him creaks with every move, but I can’t let myself focus on anything except keeping pressure steady. His breathing is too shallow, his skin too pale. His pulse feels weaker every time I check.

“Move to one side.” Bishop’s voice is calm, but there’s a distinct undercurrent of urgency in it.

I pull my hands back, and he takes over, replacing the gauze with a fresh piece. His hands are steady, but there’s tension in the set of his jaw.

Rook appears from the hallway, arms full of more medical supplies. He sets them down and gloves up without hesitation. Michael keeps pressure on the second wound, his knuckles white.

“This one is deeper, and should be looked at first.”

Victor steps in, gloves snapping into place as he grabs a suture kit. He spares a glance at me, then leans over the table. “We don’t have anything to numb the area, so you’ll need to keep him steady.”

Knight’s head lolls to the side, a faint groan leaving his lips. His eyes flicker open briefly, glassy and unfocused, before sliding shut again. I grab his hand, needing the connection more than he does.

“We should take him to a hospital.” Michael says. “This is something we need doctors for.”

“No hospitals,” Knight rasps. His eyes flicker open.

“You’ve been shot twice.” I lean closer to him. “You need real doctors, not us fumbling around.”

“They’ll ask questions.” Bishop’s voice is quiet. “Hospitals report gunshot wounds. We don’t need that kind of scrutiny.”

“But—”

“ No hospitals.” Knight repeats.

Victor doesn’t look up. The needle flashes, the first pull of thread through Knight’s torn skin sending a shiver down my spine. His breathing stutters, his chest rising unevenly as he groans softly. My grip on his hand tightens. It’s clammy, sticky with blood, but I don’t want to let go.

“How do you know what you’re doing?”

His focus doesn’t change, each pass of the needle stitching together what should never have been torn apart.

“Contrary to popular belief perpetuated by television and movie screens, high-profile hackers often get shot at. You learn quickly in our business how to patch yourself up.”

Blood pools beneath Knight, spreading out over the table and staining everything it touches. I can’t take my eyes off his chest, willing each shallow rise and fall to continue. The room feels impossibly small, every sound too loud—the creak of the table, the muted rustle of fabric, the occasional clink of metal tools.

“Eva, breathe.” Michael’s voice is soft.

I force myself to take a shallow breath. My lungs feel tight, like they’re full of glass shards, but I do it again. And again.

Knight’s eyes flutter open again, his gaze drifting aimlessly before settling on me.

“Still not dead,” he whispers.

“Don’t talk.” His fingers twitch faintly, as if trying to respond, and I hold on tighter.

Victor finishes with the side wound and moves seamlessly to the shoulder. “Hold steady.”

Bishop shifts his grip. No one speaks, the silence broken only by Knight’s labored breaths. I glance at Rook. He’s arranging the supplies, his movements efficient but tense. A faint tremor in his hands gives him away, but he says nothing. He doesn’t have to. Everyone in this room is feeling the same way.

Victor knots off the final stitch on Knight’s shoulder and steps back, stripping off his gloves.

“He’ll hold.” His voice is quiet. “Watch for fever. Keep him warm.”

Bishop nods, already moving to lift Knight. “Let’s get him to bed.”

I straighten. My legs feel weak, and for a second I’m not sure they’re going to hold my weight. I take a second to regain my balance, while Bishop and Rook lift Knight carefully, his weight sagging between them. He groans faintly, his head dropping against Bishop’s shoulder. They move together, trying not to jostle Knight, but every step feels agonizingly slow. By the time they lower him onto the bed, my hands are shaking so badly I have to press them into my thighs to keep still.

“Go clean up,” I manage to force out. “I’ll stay.”

Bishop hesitates, his gaze flicking between Knight and me, then he nods.

“I’ll send in coffee.” He leaves the room.

Rook takes one look at me, and sets up the IV himself. I don’t think I could have done it with the way I’m shaking. Once he’s done, he follows his brother out. The door clicks shut, leaving us alone.

I lower myself onto the edge of the bed. Knight’s face is pale, his lips almost colorless. His breathing is shallow, each rise and fall of his chest painfully slow. I take his hand again, wrapping my fingers around his.

“You don’t get to die. Not after everything.”

The silence presses down on me, heavy and suffocating. My gaze darts to the IV. The line is steady, the bag full.

It’s working. It has to be working.

The minutes stretch endlessly, marked only by the uneven sound of Knight’s breathing. Each rasp feels like a battle, every shallow rise and fall of his chest a tenuous victory. I adjust the blanket over him, trying to ignore the icy coldness of his skin beneath my touch. My heart thunders in my ears as I sit back, my eyes fixed on his face.

The door creaks open, and Rook steps inside, a mug of coffee in one hand.

“Cleanup is done. Bishop’s taking care of the rest.” He hands me the mug.

“What happened? Who shot him?”

“That’s for Knight to explain. You’ll have to ask him when he wakes up.” His eyes move over me, his expression unreadable. “He’s going to be out for a while. You should try and get some rest. We’ll be out here if you need anything.” He doesn’t wait for a reply, and leaves me alone again.

The room feels too still, too quiet. I focus on the faint rhythm of Knight’s breathing, counting each breath like it’s the only thing keeping my own going. I’m surprised to discover anger still simmering beneath the surface—at being left behind, at not knowing what went wrong—but it’s not as strong as the relief of him being here.

Memories flash through my mind. Knight’s laugh, his sarcastic banter. The way he’d turned to look at me, the half-smile like the world amused and irritated him in equal measures. My eyes burn, and I shove the thoughts away. He’s here now. That’s what matters.

Reaching out, I brush a damp strand of hair from his forehead.

“You’d better make it through this. I’m not letting you off the hook that easily.”

His breathing stutters for a moment, and I freeze, holding my breath until it evens out again, the rise and fall of his chest returning to that fragile rhythm.

Exhaustion bears down on me, but I can’t move, can’t look away.

He’s alive. He came back to me.

Everything else can wait.