Chapter Fifty-Three
Adriana
The flashing lights draw closer and I’m seized with a flurry of emotions that want to tear my heart apart; hope for Reaper, that whoever’s arriving will get him the medical attention that he so desperately needs; fear and anger that saving his life may cost me everything and leave me with only a jail sentence and a nagging, eternal sense of regret and pain.
I love him; I’ll be happy that he’s alive; I’ll hate him for what he’s taken from me, and I will never, ever stop hurting.
“God damn it,” I murmur as those lights come closer, still too bright in the darkness to make out anything except the flashing.
Tank gives me a heavy look. “Damn it? Why the fuck would you say that?”
“He’ll live, and I’m glad about that, but this is going to end with me going to jail to save the life of the man who is responsible for my sister’s death.”
“You believe that self-loathing bastard’s story?”
I blink. “Yes?”
“You believe his word — a man who did everything he could to kill himself?”
I blink again, harder. Because what the fuck is this man — Reaper’s own club brother — saying to me? “Shouldn’t I?”
“Reaper didn’t pull Vanessa into the war with Victor Moretti.
Vanessa used to work for Moretti — she was one of his strippers — and she ran away to a shelter that Moretti had his claws sunk into.
A monster like him lets nothing he believes is his property, people included, get away from him.
Vanessa was a target whether she was with Reaper or not.
Reaper blames himself because he got clean, he survived, he beat Moretti, and Vanessa died in his arms while he carried her into the ER, screaming for medical help. ”
My eyes land on Reaper while the sirens grow closer. “He’s innocent?”
“Generally? Fuck no. In this? Fuck yes. He holds himself accountable because he had a dream for the two of them, and that dream died in his arms of an overdose forced into her veins by a soulless monster. He might be a fucking idiot who ran away from his brothers on a quest to kill himself, and he might deserve a metric fuckton of an assbeating for that, but in this, he’s innocent. ”
The sirens and lights draw closer. I see the shape of an ambulance coalescing in the dark. I could run, I could run away and leave Reaper to be saved — maybe saved — but after everything that happened here today, who knows if I’d ever see him again?
And seeing him again is worth everything.
I resolve to stay. To stay and go with him, to be there when he wakes up, hopefully, even if it means I only get to kiss him one last time and tell him I forgive him before life, the law, the universe, splits us apart for good.
The lights draw closer. They’re almost here. Maybe I can ride in the ambulance with him.
The ambulance comes to a stop right next to our group. The back doors fly open, as does the driver’s side door. Out of the back come two paramedics wheeling a gurney.
Out of the front? A familiar face beaming from ear to ear.
Mayhem.
“Sorry we took so long. Hijacking this thing was a pain in the ass. Can you believe these two paramedics didn’t want to be our hostages?
It’s absolutely fucking crazy that I had to pull a gun on these two just to get them to come along and save someone’s life.
People these days just have no commitment to their jobs. ”
The two paramedics exchange a look that screams, 'What the hell have we gotten ourselves into,' but they move with professional efficiency despite their circumstances. The older one, graying at the temples with steady hands, immediately drops to his knees beside Reaper.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, taking in the blood-soaked mess that is Reaper's torso. "What happened to him?"
"Knife wounds," Tank says grimly. "Multiple stab wounds, torture."
The paramedic nods, his face grim but focused. "Let's get him loaded. Now."
They work quickly, transferring Reaper's unconscious form onto the gurney. I stay close, my hand brushing his arm as they lift him. His skin is cold, too cold, and my stomach lurches.
"You two riding with us?" the younger paramedic asks Tank and me as they wheel the gurney toward the ambulance.
"Yes," I say without hesitation. Tank nods his agreement.
We climb into the back of the ambulance. Through the small window to the front, I can see Diesel settling into the passenger seat while Mayhem takes the wheel with that manic grin still plastered on his face.
The older paramedic immediately goes to work, cutting away what's left of Reaper's bloody shirt. The wounds are worse than I thought — deep, deliberate cuts across his chest and abdomen. Some are still bleeding sluggishly.
"I'm Marcus," the older paramedic says as he works, his hands moving with practiced precision.
"Former Army surgeon. Lost my license a few years back, thanks to losing myself in the bottle, but I’m clean now and I still know my way around trauma.
" He glances at his partner. "This is Jake. He’s new. "
“Three years. Not new. Though maybe compared to you, old man,” Jake says with a grin. Jake hands Marcus supplies without being asked while the old man gets to work.
"These are surgical," Marcus observes, examining the wounds. "Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. Meant to cause maximum pain without hitting anything immediately fatal."
My hands clench into fists. Ruslan Volkov. The death he received was so much better than he deserved.
Marcus works quickly, cleaning and suturing the worst of the wounds while Jake monitors Reaper's vitals. The ambulance lurches as Mayhem takes a corner too fast, and Marcus steadies himself without missing a stitch.
"Pulse is weak and thready," Jake reports. "Blood pressure's dropping."
Marcus pauses in his stitching, his face grave. "He's lost too much blood. We've stopped the bleeding, but..." He looks up at Tank and me. "He needs a transfusion. Immediately. Do either of you know his blood type?"
Tank shakes his head. "Hell, I don't even know his middle name."
My heart hammers against my ribs as Marcus continues, "Without blood, I don't know if we can save him. His body's shutting down from the blood loss."
The words hit me like a physical blow. After everything — after learning Tank's revelation, after discovering Reaper might actually be innocent — I can't lose him. Not now. Not when there might be a chance for us.
"I can help," I say, my voice cutting through the tension in the cramped ambulance. Both paramedics look at me. "I'm O-negative. Universal donor."
Marcus's eyes widen with something that might be hope. "You're sure?"
"Yes, I’m fucking sure. I donate regularly — used to, anyway, when I had a normal life." My voice gets stronger, more determined. "Take my blood. Take whatever you need to save him."
"Adriana…" Tank starts, but I cut him off.
"Do it. Now." I roll up my sleeve, exposing my arm. "I don't care how much you need. Take it."
Marcus is already moving, pulling supplies from a cabinet. "Jake, get me the portable transfusion kit. We'll do a direct transfer."
"Are you sure about this?" Jake asks me as he hands Marcus the equipment. "Direct transfusion can be risky for the donor, especially in a moving vehicle."
I look down at Reaper's pale, still face. His breathing is so shallow I can barely see his chest rise and fall. "I'm sure."
Marcus swabs my arm with alcohol, the sharp scent cutting through the metallic smell of blood that fills the ambulance. "This is going to hurt, and you might feel weak afterward. We'll monitor you both, but…"
"Just do it," I snap. The needle slides into my vein, and I watch my blood flow through the clear tubing toward Reaper. It's such a simple thing — my blood becoming his blood — but it feels like I'm giving him pieces of my soul. I pray it’s enough.
Tank watches grimly as Marcus connects the other end to an IV in Reaper's arm. "Kid's got more fight in her than sense," he mutters, but there's approval in his voice.
"Sometimes that's what it takes," Marcus says, monitoring the flow. His experienced hands adjust the equipment with the smooth confidence of someone who's done this in far worse conditions than the back of a hijacked ambulance.
The ambulance swerves again, and I brace myself against the wall. Through the small window, I can see Mayhem's wild driving style hasn't improved, but somehow we're still moving in the right direction. Towards freedom. Towards safety. Towards hope.
"How long?" I ask.
Marcus answers with a shrug and a grunt. “No idea. Never made it a habit to do direct blood transfusions to victims of knife torture in the back of a moving ambulance. The best advice I can give you is: pray to whatever god you believe in.”
I shut my eyes, feel more of my blood — more of my soul — leave my body, and, for the first time since I was a little girl, I pray.