Knight couldn’t seem to think past the need to hear Dr. Mike say that Rook would live.
Devlin was sitting with Brynn when they walked inside. They both looked up with spooked expressions, which changed to relief when they saw him.
“Rook’s getting blood,” Devlin said. “Your father is sitting with him while Dr. Mike sees to Jonas.”
Knight nodded, then walked over to the door with blood streaked on the knob. He knocked softly, then went inside without waiting for an answer. Father stood on the other side of the exam bed, one hand on Rook’s forehead. Father wore a pair of sweat pants and his bare chest and throat bore drying bloodstains. He looked old, older than Knight had ever seen, and he ached for his father.
Rook lay flat on the bed, his left shoulder and neck heavily bandaged, pink and red already seeping through the white here and there. He was beyond pale and too damned still, his only movement the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Two IV lines led into Rook’s right arm—one from a bag of clear liquid, and the other attached to Winston Burke’s vein. Winston sat silently in a chair by Rook’s bed, freely giving blood to try to save a life. Doing his duty as any good enforcer would.
Knight circled the bed to stand next to his father, who gazed at him with watery eyes, the joy and gratitude at having his middle son back clear in their copper-flecked depths.
“Fiona’s dead,” Knight said.
Father blinked slowly, then inclined his head toward the bed. “Geary did this.”
“I know. He was trying to protect his son.”
“So far that’s the only part of this I think I can reasonably understand.”
“You’re one up on me, then.” Knight touched Rook’s left hand, the skin warm and slightly swollen, and the only place on his arm that wasn’t covered in bandages. He felt no emotional backwash from his brother. Nothing at all. Such a deep level of unconsciousness frightened him. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Do you know why it did?”
“Brynn told you about the exchange. Geary was in the room when she did it. That’s how Fiona found out. She warned Brynn this would happen if she told anyone but me.”
“Brynn took a calculated risk in doing what she did.”
“What if the results aren’t worth it?”
Father lifted his eyebrows in silent question, seeming dismayed by the comment.
Knight faced his father. “Rook could still die, and even if he lives he’ll probably be disfigured. And now that Fiona’s dead, the other sisters have every excuse to rain hell down on us. Fiona might have been insane, but she was calculating. She did things with a purpose. From what little I saw of Victoria, the triplets are wound even tighter and have half the brainpower. We can’t anticipate them.”
“You’re right, Knight, but this is how things have shaken out. This is what we have to work with. Rook’s hanging on, and you’re still here, and I will take both of those blessings over guaranteed safety. We have every chance of defending this town against an assault, whether it happens in an hour, a week, or never. I know you were willing to sacrifice yourself for us, and I am not sorry that you’re here, instead of with them.”
The tiny capsule of poison in his pocket felt like a lead weight to Knight, holding him down and reminding him of the choice he’d made. Reminding him of the decision that had, once again, been taken out of his hands. He wasn’t sorry he was alive and with his family, or that Fiona was dead on the ground with half her head missing. He was just sorry that Rook had to pay the price for Knight’s failure.
Dr. Mike came into the small room with his stethoscope at the ready. He checked Rook’s pulse, heart, and blood pressure progress with a consistently benign expression that irritated Knight. When Dr. Mike silently added something to notes he’d already written on the bedside chart, Knight bit back the urge to growl.
“Well?” his father asked.
“Blood pressure’s still low, but there’s progress,” Dr. Mike said. “If he makes it to sunrise, I’d say he’s in good shape to pull through.”
Sunrise was hours away.
Dr. Mike continued, “I want him to shift as soon as possible tomorrow so there isn’t any permanent nerve damage to that shoulder. Won’t do much for scars, but at least he won’t lose the use of the arm.”
“I understand,” Father said. “How’s Jonas?”
“Second-degree burns. I patched him up and slapped him into a bed upstairs. He’ll recover just fine.”
“Did he happen to mention how he came to be involved tonight?”
Dr. Mike nodded. “Aye, the boy said he’s been hiding near the creek since yesterday. Said he didn’t understand his father kicking him out for acting the way he was told to act around Brynn Atwood, so he stayed close. Said he overheard the one named Fiona talking to Cassius, his father’s enforcer, about shooting Ms. Atwood if she didn’t come with them. He knew Fiona was the bad guy, so he killed Cassius and stole the rifle. The rest you know.”
“We’re very lucky he stayed close by.”
“Sounds like it. If we’re done, I need to see to my next patient.”
Father blinked. “Who else is injured?”
“Ms. Atwood.”
“What happened to Brynn?” Knight asked, startled.
“She scraped her knees to pieces at some point, and her ankle’s probably sprained.”
“She was trying to fight Geary when we got to the barn,” Father said. “Facing down a beast twice her size with nothing but a shovel.”
“That takes a lot of guts.”
She was protecting her mate, Knight realized. She’d fought for him. She should be by his side, too.
She had more than proved herself worthy of that place.
***
Brynn’s only experience with painkillers extended to two aspirin tablets at a time, so she wasn’t sure what to expect when Dr. Mike made her swallow actual narcotics while he cleaned her knees and wrapped her swollen ankle. The pills didn’t seem to be helping, and then suddenly the room blurred and everything the burly doctor said was hilarious. She was vaguely aware of being carried, and then deposited somewhere soft.
When she woke up later, thin slants of sunlight were strewn across the ceiling. She was in one of the bedrooms in Dr. Mike’s house. Her skinned knees were covered with a shiny layer of liquid bandage, and her right ankle was wrapped and propped up on a pillow. Someone had covered it with an ice pack that had long since warmed.
No more Vicodin for me.
Her ankle still ached, but the throb had dulled to manageable levels. Her calves were sore, her hands were raw, and her stomach growled loudly. She needed to do a lot of things, including eat, but nothing was as important as finding out Rook’s condition. She hadn’t really seen him since the barn, except in glimpses and snatches, and that wasn’t enough. Sunlight meant she’d been asleep for hours. If he’d died while she rested—
No.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. The room tilted. She held still until the whirling sensation passed, and then gritted her teeth as the blood rushing down into her ankle made it throb twice as hard as before. She groaned at the idea of putting weight on it. Perhaps if she slid across the floor on her rear end, she could get to the stairs.
The door swung open and McQueen stepped inside with a wave of authority she felt more distinctly with each day she spent here—the power of the Alpha. And he’d come to see her. Her heart kicked. He didn’t look angry or grief-stricken, just exhausted, and that gave her hope.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Dizzy.” She was foolish for admitting it, but she didn’t much care. Her concern for Rook was stronger than her embarrassment. “I’m not used to such strong painkillers. I hadn’t planned to sleep for so long.”
“It was an exhausting night. Your body knew better.”
“I suppose. How’s Rook?”
He smiled, and the lovely expression cracked the fear enclosing her heart. “Would you like to see him?”
“Yes.”
Without a word, he scooped her up in his arms. She let him carry her downstairs, never once scared that he’d drop her. Thomas McQueen made her feel safe in a way her own father never had. But how could Archimedes Atwood, Prime Magus and perfectionist elemental, truly love a daughter who was always second choice? She was disappointed to finally understand this, and yet relieved, as well. She could stop trying to measure up to his unreachable expectations and just be herself.
Here.
With Rook.
The scents of cinnamon and warm bread greeted her in the waiting room. Bishop and Devlin sat on the couch eating something clumpy from ceramic bowls, which her nose told her was oatmeal. A sliced loaf of cinnamon raisin bread and a covered pot sat on a tray between them, and a coffee carafe stood on a nearby side table. They offered pleasant good-mornings as she and McQueen passed through. He nudged open the exam room door.
Knight stood with his back to the door, blocking her immediate view of the bed. He stepped back and to the side, gifting her with a gentle, haunted smile as he moved out of the way. Rook was propped up on several pillows, his body at a forty-five-degree angle. The bandages around his left arm and shoulder were white and seemed freshly changed, as were the gauze patches on his neck and cheek. Best of all, he was looking right at her.
Joy filled her nearly to bursting, and if she’d been able to leap from McQueen’s arms and fly to the bed, she would have. Instead, she allowed McQueen to sit her down on the edge of the bed, on Rook’s right side. She twined her fingers with his and squeezed, overwhelmed by the warmth of his skin and the pulse beating steadily beneath. Her own heart raced as her senses took him in, assuring her that he was alive.
“You look terrible,” Rook said.
Brynn didn’t censor her startled laughter.
“You saved my life,” he continued. “They’d have killed me if you hadn’t distracted them. Thank you.”
Brynn’s eyes burned with grateful tears. “It was my turn. Since the day we met, you’ve saved me more times than I can count.”
“I’m not keeping score.”
“If you keep me around, you may want to start.”
“No ifs, Brynn.” He gazed at her with an intensity that made her insides go liquid and her pulse race. Uncaring of her audience, she leaned forward and tried to kiss his cheek. He turned his head at the last moment and found her mouth with his, instead.
The kiss was gentle and sweet, the reaffirmation of a promise made the day before and nearly broken by the actions of others. She wanted to build a future with him, here in Cornerstone, and she put that silent desire into the press of her lips and the touch of her hands. His head moved ever so slightly, as if nodding his agreement.
She pulled back just enough to see his face, her entire body thrumming with life and purpose, and her heart filled with emotion. She’d walked into town five days ago certain that the precious man in front of her was a murderer, and now she would do anything to keep him safe.
I love him.
“He’s going to be all right?” Brynn asked, directing the question over her shoulder to McQueen.
“According to Dr. Mike, yes,” McQueen replied. “Rook needs to shift at least twice today, though, to make sure the muscles heal properly.”
Rook made a grumpy noise.
“Shifting while injured hurts a lot more than when you’re well,” Knight said. “Think of it like running a marathon over broken glass with two sprained ankles.”
“I needed that mental image, thanks,” Rook said.
“No problem.”
“Bite me.”
“I think I’ll leave that one to Brynn, if you don’t mind.”
Rook laughed, while Brynn blushed to the roots of her hair.
“You’ll get used to it,” McQueen said as he placed a warm hand on her shoulder.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Having more big brothers than you know what to do with.” He gave her shoulder another squeeze, then slipped out of the room. She stared at the half-shut door a moment, grateful for the silent acceptance into his family.
Brynn was finally home.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Rook finished toweling off, then cinched the blue terry around his waist. He stared at the fog-covered bathroom mirror, a little nervous to clean it off and look at the new him. After two grueling shifting sessions—made slightly easier by having both Brynn and Knight there—a six-hour nap, and one more thorough exam from Dr. Mike, Rook had been declared well enough to go home. As long as he took it easy for at least two days.
For a loup garou, “take it easy” was as simple an order to follow as flying a paper airplane in a hurricane.
He’d agreed, though, simply to go home again and sleep in his own bed. With Brynn by his side the entire night. She never commented on his scars, and he hadn’t wanted to see them. So while she went downstairs to check if there was any news on the three remaining hybrids, he hit the shower.
He cracked the door to allow some steam out, stepped up to the mirror, and swiped his palm across the condensation. Angled the left side of his body toward the mirror. His shoulder wasn’t as awful as Dr. Mike had feared it would be. Rook had lost a chunk of meat, thanks to Geary’s teeth, which made the height of his shoulders uneven. The skin was a craggy mess of scars, like someone had poured melted candle wax from his neck to just below his armpit. It would never hold a tan, but he hadn’t lost any use of the arm, and he was grateful for that. He’d make a lousy enforcer for his father—and one day, for Bishop—with only one good arm.
The other scars on his throat and legs were thin and nearly invisible unless you knew to look for them. He didn’t mind those.
The detail that bothered him the most was his left ear. The shell was intact, but the lobe was gone. Completely. He traced a finger over the jagged piece of cartilage and couldn’t help wondering which of his attackers had swallowed the missing steel gauge. His hearing didn’t seem to be affected at all—another thing he was grateful for—but the result made him look . . . incomplete.
The floorboards outside creaked, and Brynn’s floral scent tickled his nose before she knocked. He opened the door. Her startled eyes dropped to his towel for one brief, arousing instant, before returning to his face. She had a small box in her hands and an odd look on her face.