Chapter 40
Landon
The beeping is the first thing that cuts through the fog. Not a clock. Not a truck’s turn signal. It’s thinner, higher, and goddamned annoying.
My eyelids feel like someone glued nickels to them, but I pry them open anyway.
A rectangle of ceiling tile stares back at me.
A fluorescent panel glows with a halo I don’t like.
The air tastes like saline and lemon disinfectant.
I try to swallow, and my throat protests—desert dry, all sand and splinters.
When I shift, fire lances through my chest. Not a sharp stab—more like a hot rope dragged through flesh. I gasp, and the beeping speeds up, tattling on me.
Memory doesn’t walk back in so much as slam into me like a freight train. Brett coming out of the office, the gun, the shot that dropped me. Marcy!
I turn my head and groan when the room tilts sideways. But my chest eases the moment I spot her.
Marcy’s curled in the vinyl chair next to my bed, legs pretzeled under her, cheek resting against the bed rail like she fell asleep mid-guard duty.
She’s wearing my green hoodie and drowning in it, sleeves pulled over her hands.
Her hair is a tangle and makeup smudged under her eyes, but she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.
She’s here—she’s okay.
A shape fills the doorway. “Holy shit, you’re awake.”
Ravi slips inside, eyes wide. He’s got the look of a man who’s been living under fluorescent lights for too many hours and is about to crash hard.
I try to talk. It comes out as a rasp. Ravi reaches for a Styrofoam cup and guides the straw to my mouth like I’m ninety. The first sip burns, then helps.
“What—what are you doing here?” I croak.
“My sister had the baby—I’m here to visit.
But there are too many people crammed in her room already, so I thought I’d come check on you.
Didn’t think you’d actually be awake though.
They’ve got you on some pretty strong meds.
” His eyes widen like he’s remembering something important.
“Becket’s been here all day. I should get him.
” He bolts into the hall, and seconds later I hear heavy boots slapping against the tiled floor.
Becket swings in, all broad shoulders and a face built for poker.
The mask cracks—just a little—at the edges.
“About damn time,” he mutters, moving to the far side of the bed and bracing a hand on the rail.
His eyes sweep over me like he’s checking torque specs—IV, monitors, my color, the bandage bulge under the gown. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got run over by a freight train,” I manage.
He huffs what might be a laugh. “That tracks.”
“What—” I start, then stop because the word rakes my throat raw. “What happened after…?”
“Short version?” Becket says. “You took a bullet. It missed your lung and the major arteries by about a thumb’s width, according to the surgeon. They took you into surgery, cleaned you out, sewed you up, and kept you under to let your body catch up.”
“How long?”
“Two days,” he says.
Two days. My stomach dips. “Marcy?”
“Fine,” he says immediately, his voice softening just a hair at her name.
“Shaken. Pissed. Scared out of her mind. But not hurt. She hasn’t left your side much.
Wes and I drag her to the cafeteria when she’ll actually move.
Mostly she sits right there and glares at anyone who looks like they might try to unplug you. ”
That loosens something tight in my chest. Gratitude, fear, love—too big a braid to separate.
“And Brett?” I ask, and there’s a grit in my voice I don’t bother to hide.
“RCMP came in and arrested him,” Becket says. “Marcy held her own. Got the gun away from him and everything before we got there.” He shakes his head. “He’s sitting in jail waiting to be transferred, and the Crown’s already licking their chops.”
I exhale slowly. It’s not relief exactly—relief is soft. This is heavier. A sandbag set down where I can see it. “Brett… he—” A flash hits: the sideways tilt of the world, Marcy’s hot breath at my ear as she said my name like a prayer and a curse. I blink hard. “Did he say anything?”
“Lawyered up,” Beck says. “But he filed that bogus assault complaint the day before. That’s not aging well. The police found the two former girlfriends with old restraining orders, out east. It paints a picture.”
I look at Marcy again. Her lashes flutter like a breeze is playing there, then her eyes open, pupils blown wide before they focus on me. She goes stock-still. The chair screeches back, and she’s upright, both hands gripping the rail.
“Landon.”
“Hey,” I say, and my voice cracks in the middle. I don’t care.
She leans over the bed, careful of the wires, and cups my jaw with a trembling hand. Her thumb grazes the bruise on my cheekbone—one I didn’t know I had—and her mouth wavers before it steadies into a smile.
“You’re awake,” she whispers, breath catching. “You’re actually—” She laughs, this wet, broken sound, then she’s hugging me as much as the rails allow, forehead pressed against mine.
I slide a hand up to the back of her head and hold on. The pain flares, the monitor tattles again, and I still don’t let go.
“Alright,” Ravi says, voice thick with a grin. “We’ll… uh… go admire the gift shop magnets.”
“Yup.” Becket follows him out, the door soft-clicking shut behind them.
It’s quiet. Hospital quiet, which is never truly silent: a far-off cart wheel squeaking, a cough down the hall, the hum of the vent. Close up, it’s just her breathing and the stubborn stutter of my heart.
“You scared me,” she says into my shoulder. “I thought—” She stops, breathes, lifts her head. “I thought you were going to die.”
“I’m too stubborn,” I say. “Ask anyone.”
She lets out a small, disbelieving laugh. “I did. They all agreed.”
Her hand slides down my arm, fingers finding mine, lacing together like we do this every day. Maybe we will. The thought lands with a weight that feels like home.
“How much do you remember?” she asks.
“Enough.” I squeeze her hand. “Becket said you held your own. Maybe you don’t need me as much as I thought.”
She leans her forehead against mine. “I’ll always need you, Landon Hale. I love you.”
I grin, and it hurts in a way I don’t mind. “I love you, too.”
We sit in that for a moment. The words settle into the room like a second blanket.
Her fingers squeeze mine. She leans back a fraction, her gaze dropping to the bandage beneath my gown. “Does it hurt?”
“Only when I breathe.”
Her head snaps up. “I’ll get the nurse—”
I hold her tighter. “Don’t you dare leave. Every second with you is worth the pain.”
She smiles and kisses my forehead. But then she gets up anyway and heads to the door. Moments later, she returns with a nurse sporting purple streaks in her bun and forearms like a powerlifter.
“Mr. Hale, look who decided to rejoin the living.” She glances at the monitor, then at me. “How’s the pain?”
“Making its presence known.”
“We can help with that.” She checks my lines, scans a barcode, and pushes something into the IV with the ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times.
“The docs will want to see you do some deep breathing and coughing to keep your lungs happy. I’m the mean one who makes you do it.
In an hour, when that kicks in, I’ll be back to torture you.
” She winks at Marcy. “He screams, you hold his hand.”
“I was already planning to,” Marcy says with a smile.
“Good.” The nurse’s eyes soften as she takes in the hoodie and the makeshift chair nest. “You doing okay, honey?”
Marcy nods. “I am now.”
The nurse squeezes her shoulder and slips out, the door closing with its gentle hydraulic sigh.
I feel the medicine begin to smooth the edges. The fire dulls to an ember. The room takes one step back.
“You should sleep,” Marcy says, like she can see the change. “I’ll be here.”
“You should sleep too,” I counter. “You look like you fought a raccoon for that chair and lost.”
“I did,” she says. “The raccoon’s name is Becket. He snores.”
I smile as my eyes grow heavy. “Figures.”
The meds turn everything to molasses. My eyelids keep dropping without warning, no memo from headquarters. I fight the pull long enough to study her face one more time. “You gonna be here when I wake up?”
Her answer comes swift and certain. “Always.”