Page 90 of Theirs to Hunt (Girls Like Us #1)

Chapter ninety

T he vinyl chair beneath me groans as I shift, elbows braced on my knees, hands buried in my hair.

I cannot stop seeing it. Her. Crushed behind that bulletproof glass. Slumped like a ragdoll while I screamed her name and clawed at doors that would not open.

I knew she was alive. I had to believe she was alive. But for too many seconds, I could not get to her.

And that will haunt me longer than any battlefield.

I exhale through my teeth. The scent of antiseptic clings to my clothes.

Regret.

Regret I let her drive. Regret I was not in the car with her. So many regrets.

And those are just the start.

Somewhere behind the double doors, she is being scanned. Stitched. Monitored.

Not dead. Not dying. Just... not in my arms.

Which feels wrong.

Footsteps echo down the corridor. Steady. Heavy.

I know who it is before I look up.

Grayson.

He does not speak right away. Does not need to.

Just stands there, gaze flicking over me. The bags under my eyes. The blood on my knuckles from where I punched the car window, even though it would not break.

He exhales once. Short. Deliberate. Then sits beside me, knee brushing mine.

The silence stretches between us. Not awkward. Just dense.

Then, without warning, his hand reaches across the narrow space and grips the back of my neck.

Firm. Steady. Like he is grounding me.

"I would have lost my mind too," he says quietly. His voice is rougher than usual. Something frayed at the edges.

"You kept her alive, Brooks. You were there."

I nod. Throat tight. Jaw clenched.

I cannot speak. Not yet.

His hand lingers for a moment, fingers pressing into the base of my skull the way he used to when I was a kid and the world felt too big.

I did not realize how much I missed that until right now.

And just as quietly, just as deliberately, he adds,

"We do not let go of what is ours."

It is not a vow. It is a truth.

One he is sa ying for me now. Not just to me.

Then he lets go. Leans back. Pulls out his phone like nothing happened.

But I sit straighter. Breathe deeper.

He came. For her. For me.

And that is enough to keep me going.

To let me focus on something besides the shame I felt at failing her.

Because maybe I did not fail.

I straighten my spine, drag my hands down my face, and force my head back into the game.

Grayson is already on his phone, no doubt coordinating something I will never see.

But this one? I need to own it.

I pull out mine and fire off a group text to Maddox, Cade, and Inez.

Brooks: I want eyes on the crash. Get me intersection footage, VIN on the other vehicle, everything you can pull.

Was it random or deliberate? I want answers.

Maddox, this is our only priority. Cade, run financials on the guy.

Inez, cross-check my security feeds for tailing vehicles or repeat pings near Reagan’s apartment in the last 48 hours.

Do it from the hospital. She will be guarded 24/7 here.

Create a schedule. Do not put me on it. Move quiet. I want this tight.

Maddox: On it. Already pulled partial footage. Full cam grid in twenty.

Cade: Scanning financials now. I will ping when I get a full profile.

Inez: Understood. Dispatching a sweep team to her place.

Nobody gets close until we clear it. En route to you, and I have two meeting me there.

You just take care of her, boss. Maddox, you take Brooks.

Cade, you take Grayson. Build a team. We do not know what we are dealing with or if she was opportunity or target.

.. or meant to make Brooks and Grayson vulnerable.

They do not need me to lead. That is why I trust them.

Inez has instincts I would bet my life on, and she knows damn well how distracted I am with Reagan bleeding behind those doors.

I cannot think it.

I shake my head, trying to shake off the thought.

I lift my eyes to the double doors again. Still sealed. The red "Do Not Enter" light glaring like a warning flare.

I move to the nurses’ station, keeping my tone level. "Status on Reagan Marks?"

The nurse checks the monitor. "Still in CT, but stable. No internal bleeding. No skull fracture. They are prepping her for a private recovery room. Someone will come update you shortly."

I nod. Stable. That is something.

But I will not exhale until I see her for myself.

Behind me, Grayson’s voice stays low. Clipped. Probably with Devon. Always four moves ahead.

But for once, I am not waiting for orders.

Not today.

The doors to the ER slide open with a soft hiss, and then I see her.

Bobbie.

Still in scrubs. Her high ponytail sagging.

Tension visibly draining from her shoulders the moment her eyes land on me.

Her face says what mine probably does too, relief that Reagan is alive, grief she had to go through this, and the bone-deep exhaustion that comes after the adrenaline burns off.

But she is here. And somehow, that steadies me.

I reach back, hand landing on Grayson’s shoulder.

"Dad," I say quietly, "looks like Bobbie’s got an update for us."