Page 16 of Twins for the Enemy

Chapter twelve

~KIERAN~

It’s terror in a way I haven’t experienced since seeing Olivia’s head slick with blood.

I run over, feeling like my lungs are constricted. Her legs are splayed at an odd angle. She’s not moving.

I drop to my knees, the piece-of-shit slush splattering under my weight. As I reach toward her, her hand grasps her ankle, but she flinches away as soon as she touches it.

“Ow,” she mumbles, eyes squeezed shut. I consider unlacing her boots to check how badly she injured her ankle, but the compression of the boot could be keeping some of the pain at bay.

I carefully slip one arm under her knees and the other around her back to pick her up. She still winces, and it’s like an electrical current—the pain coursing through me too.

“We need to get to the hospital,” I say.

“We can’t,” she says through gritted teeth. “They’ll tell the police that I was there.”

“I’ll just tell them that you’re my pregnant wife,” I say. “I’ll deal with any fallout.”

“They won’t—” She stops, her hand moving over her abdomen. Her whole body tenses in my arms. “Did you see how I landed? I didn’t hurt the twins, did I? Kieran, if I—”

“You landed on your side,” I say. “This isn’t your fault. I should have shoveled better. I’ve lived here long enough that I should’ve known the snow would melt and create a hazard. ”

“You shoveled like a deranged person, which we know you are.” She pauses. “I’ll go for the twins, but if any police come around—”

“I’ll deal with them,” I say firmly.

Adrenaline turns off everything except instinct.

I carry her through the house to the garage.

She takes in a sharp breath, seeing the stretch of cement and the rows of vehicles on either side of us.

I put her in the passenger side of the Audi, my fastest car that can maintain control in the snow.

I bundle up a blazer I had left in the car, making a cushion with it for her to rest her foot on.

It should also help prevent it from moving too much when I drive.

As I strap her in, she tries to smile, but I see the edges of pain in her eyes, and it stabs right into my chest.

I carefully, but firmly, close the door and run to the driver’s side.

The garage door opens too slowly, but I take off as soon as I can slip underneath it. The gate is also excruciatingly slow .

What is the point of all of these security measures if the risks are just as dangerous on the inside?

I push the speed limit, dodging between the other cars. I’m certain the other drivers are cursing me out, but they’re irrelevant. They don’t have Farah in their car. They don’t know what’s at stake.

“Kieran,” she says. I glance over. She’s gripping the door’s armrest. “You can slow down. My ankle isn’t going to be any more sprained or broken by the time we get there.”

I slow down, but my mind is still racing, figuring out the fastest route to the ER.

I don’t like this.

I don’t like the unpredictability.

I don’t like the lack of control.

I don’t like her being in pain.

But I wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here, ensuring that everything is being done to keep her safe and mitigate her pain .

I know the day will come when I’m the threat. One day, she’ll find out that it’s my sister she left to die in the fire, and she’ll know that I always planned to take everything from her—the thief in plain sight robbing the hidden arsonist.

I’ll deal with these impulses later. I’ve got seven months to bury them before I send her to prison. Our twins will be born, and whatever this is between us—it ends.

A clean slate.

At least, that’s the lie I keep telling myself.

When terror reaches its peak, it overflows into rage. By the time I stop at the patient intake desk, it takes all of my self-control not to dismantle the door separating me from the physicians.

“My wife slipped on some ice,” I say. “I need her to see a doctor.”

“We need you to fill out these forms.” The woman hands me a clipboard without looking up from her computer. “It’s just personal information, medical history, consent forms, HIPAA—”

“No, she needs to see someone right now.”

She glances up at me. “Sir, I understand your distress, but we have a sys—”

“Do you know what the name on the trauma center of this hospital is?” I demand.

“Sir?” she asks. I wait, less than patiently. “It’s… it’s the Ragdon Trauma Center.”

“I’m Kieran Ragdon,” I say. “So get me a fucking doctor and a room, or my next donation will be to a developer that will turn this hospital into a weed dispensary.”

The woman’s hand hesitates over the phone. A doctor in a white coat strides up to the desk.

“Mr. Ragdon, please accept our apologies. Come back here, and we’ll help your wife. ”

He pushes on a blue square button, and the doors that lead deeper into the hospital open.

Farah clings to the fabric of my shirt as I carry her, following the doctor through the doors and down a hallway.

He stops at a room, flips a plastic flag up beside the doorframe, and indicates for us to step in.

I take Farah inside, laying her down on the bed. Her skin is pale, but she gives me a soft smile.

“I’m currently helping a patient, but I will find another doctor who can assist immediately,” the doctor says. “Thank you for your patience, Mr. Ragdon, and for your donations.”

“If anything happens to my wife that could have been prevented by prompt care,” I say, “I’ll sue this place straight into bankruptcy.”

He nods once. “Understood.”

Leaning close to Farah, it takes me a second to realize she’s still gripping onto my shirt .

“You don’t need to be such a dick,” she murmurs. “I think they believe that I’m your wife. You don’t need the theatrics.”

I slowly loosen her fingers from my shirt, but as they start to tighten again, I let her grip my hand. I’d never considered that anything I was doing was an attempt to convince the hospital staff that she was my wife. I only wanted her to be taken care of, to be prioritized, to not be in pain.

I keep a hold of her hand as I sit on the edge of her bed. I glance over at the whiteboard, where the nurse and doctor will write down their names and jot down any drugs they give Farah. On the other side, a red container with a biological hazard symbol is hanging on the wall.

“Are you worried about the twins?” Farah asks, her voice sounding a bit stronger. “You seem tense.”

“Hospitals are assembly lines of diseases,” I say, my thumb absentmindedly running along her thumb. “It’s statistically likely that you’ll run into someone here with an infectious disease. ”

“Ah, so it’s the kryptonite of your constant need for control,” she teases, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “But still, I don’t believe you. If that were the case, you’d be taking control of it by disinfecting every surface. You’d be bathing in hand sanitizer.”

I force a smile at her. She’s right. I skipped the opening of the trauma center, and when I went to see Ellie after the fire, I’d stayed long enough to ensure she was okay and left.

The problem is that Olivia haunts every hospital. Every time I smell that sharp antiseptic, the sound of a curtain being pulled closed around a patient, or the beeping of machines, I’m back to chasing beside her as they wheel her through the hallways.

I’m back to the doctor declaring the time of death, but I could swear I saw her chest move.

“Would you like me to disinfect the whole room?” I ask. For a split second, she squeezes my hand a bit harder.

“No,” she says. “The germs can live for another day. ”

I know she is likely healthy. The doctors and nurses will take care of her. I’ve already missed meetings. She would understand if I need to step out until she’s finished.

But looking at her thin fingers pressed over the back of my hand, I don’t feel any desire to leave.

Olivia’s ghost is still here, making the air taste like death and shame, but feeling Farah’s skin against mine, it’s an occasional inhale of clean air.

It’s moments of seeing a future instead of the past.

There'll be no future for us, but in these four walls, there is only here and now.

And for here and now, I’ll stay.