Page 22 of The Shape of my Scar (The Unbroken #1)

T he hospital waiting room stank of antiseptic, sweat, and fear.

They sat in that grey-lit purgatory for what felt like hours. Bone-deep exhaustion invaded his bones, but Thane could not give in.

The wall clock ticked too loud. A vending machine hummed like a distant generator.

A child cried somewhere down the corridor.

Nurses came and went, eyes tired, uniforms wrinkled, none of them stopping.

Someone offered them black tar masquerading as coffee, and Thane didn’t say no.

He was still trying to process what had just happened.

Jac sat slumped in a cracked vinyl chair, elbows on his knees, stained hands dangling uselessly between them. His pale green undershirt clung to his back, streaked with blood and grime. He hadn’t bothered to change. He hadn’t spoken, either, beyond that single, heavy refrain.

“You should’ve left her alone.”

The words still echoed in Thane’s skull, though Jac hadn’t repeated them since they’d gotten into the car. The drive to Royal Stoke had passed in silence. Jac had driven like a man possessed. Zel had stayed back to deal with the mess—the paperwork and the official lies.

On the way, they heard snippets of what had gone down on the base.

“ Control, this is Sierra Seven-Two. Be advised, suspect Malcom Braithwaite, male, mid-fifties, sustaining GSW to upper thigh, now detained. Requiring paramedic escort. ETA Royal Stoke, estimated twenty minutes. Transfer to secure medical. ”

There was a brief pause, more static…

“ Four additional individuals in custody, all linked to the site. Scene secured. No officers injured. Perimeter holding. Base code black. Awaiting Crime Scene and SOCO team.”

The cab of the car was filled with scent of desperation.

The silence was hollowed out by blood and memory.

Thane’s hands were stiff, his nails edged in crimson. His black shirt was crusted with a mix of Trish’s and Theodora’s blood. It had dried, curling the fabric tight across his chest. Every time he moved, it crackled like paper. He hadn’t washed or changed.

His mind kept looping.

Theodora’s arm rising.

Trish pulling the trigger.

Her bloodied lips, her whispered words:

“Take your contacts off.”

“I want to see.”

“That’s twice I’ve saved your arse.”

Was it her?

Dorothy? Dory?

Could she really be the girl who had haunted his dreams for so long? Why had they called her Fee?

They didn’t have the whole story, only fragments, half-whispered through shock and adrenaline by officers coming and going.

She’d coded once en route.

CPR performed mid-air.

Transfused five units.

Still in surgery.

Words floated through the corridors like ghosts:

Lacerated lung…flail chest…bullet nicked an artery…massive blood loss.

She might not make it.

She may already be gone.

He had searched for so long, only to see her die?

Thane’s fists tightened.

Then the man from the farmhouse—the one who had screamed her name, who had run through the door like the world was ending—stormed into the waiting room.

He spotted Thane instantly. “ You. ”

He crossed the space in three strides, a hurricane of fury and muscle.

He was even bigger than Maro and built like a freight train.

His fist knotted in Thane’s collar, yanking him to his feet. “Why?” he bellowed. “Why did you shoot her? Why?!”

Thane didn’t resist. He didn’t raise his hands, didn’t defend himself. He just let him shake him like a ragdoll, bloody, blank, and barely breathing from the pain.

Zel came through the doors just in time, crossing the room in two sharp steps. “Back off,” he said, voice quiet but cutting.

Jac stirred from his daze and stepped forward, placing a hand on the man’s chest. “Cormac,” he said, his voice thready. “Stop. Please.”

The big man—Cormac—turned his furious blue eyes on him.

Eyes, Thane realized, he had seen before.

“I trusted you,” he growled in a tormented rush, eyes wild. “I trusted you to look after her. How could you let this happen?”

“I’m sorry, man,” Jac whispered, his voice trembling with strain. “You don’t know how sorry I am.”

Thane swallowed, throat dry as sand. “How is she?” he asked, barely able to push the words out.

Cormac hesitated, chest heaving. His jaw worked as though chewing the question.

Then finally, he let go and stepped back, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Still in surgery,” he muttered. “Hanging on. I…I told her not to go. Why does she never listen?”

The door burst open again.

Another man rushed in—leaner, wiry, with a pair of glasses and shadows beneath his eyes that looked several weeks old. Stress clung to him like a second skin. At first glance, he was nothing like Cormac. But a closer look revealed they were twins.

“Any news?” he asked, voice bleak as he looked between them.

Cormac exhaled, then turned toward him. “No. Nothing yet.”

Jac stood between them and gestured. “These are Faolan’s brothers,” he said, voice softer now. “Cormac”—he pointed to the man who’d nearly decked Thane, then nodded at the one with glasses—“and Callum.”

Callum gave a curt nod, lips pressed into a thin line.

Thane’s head tilted slightly.

“Faolan?” he asked.

Jac nodded slowly. “Yeah…Faolan. That’s her name. Not Trish. Faolan Kearney. She’s been working deep undercover for the last six months.”

He ran a hand through his damp hair. “We were waiting for this drop for months. She…she wanted to go in alone. She worked her way into Malcolm’s inner circle. Got close to the suppliers, tracked the locations, the handlers, even a few buyers. And then you—” His voice caught.

“You came in. And you thought she was the enemy.”

No one spoke.

“We had no way of knowing which side you were on…” Jac continued.

Cormac stood against the wall, fists clenched. Callum sat down beside Jac, elbows on his knees, head bowed.

Thane sat again, but slower this time. The blood on his hands flaked like old paint.

He stared down at it.

Still warm, somewhere in his memory.

She’d saved him. Twice.

And he might’ve killed her. How was he supposed to keep living if she didn’t make it?