Chapter 18
Eighteen
Raven
Declan is shaky as he pulls up outside my apartment block.
He slumps over his tank in relief, doesn’t bother kicking it into neutral with his injured leg, but just hits the stop switch, killing the engine.
I pull my phone out, wanting to ensure Kurt knows where to send Steven, our doctor for jobs like this. It’s still dead. I’d forgotten I hadn’t powered it back on.
Declan hasn’t moved.
“Are you all right?”
His shoulders tense. “I don’t think I can get off by myself.”
“Shit. One second.” My phone has just come awake, a string of texts arriving. Most of them are from Declan—the ones I’ve been avoiding—but now I want to peek. Instead, I save them for later, opening Kurt’s.
Assume Tujunga? Steven enroute. ETA 11. Let me know if elsewhere.
Thank God. He called him straight away, and we only have half an hour to wait.
“The doctor’s coming,” I tell him as I shove my gloves in my lid and hook it on my bike. I don’t really want to leave it here, but I know I’ll need both hands. Declan easily weighs half as much again as I do.
“Handy.”
At least he’s still making jokes.
He hasn’t even kicked his side stand down, and I do it for him, making sure it’s locked before I take his arm. “All right… I guess… lean on me and swing your good leg?”
“If you drop me, I’m doubling your punishment.”
Why does that affect me as much as it does?
I run with it. He needs the distraction. “Is that a deterrent or an incentive?”
Declan goes still, long enough that I wonder if I’ve gone too far. Then he laughs. “You hellcat. I’d be fucking hard right now if I had any blood left.”
That’s not helping, not one little bit. My jacket suddenly feels too tight, my stomach’s doing that flipping thing, and I don’t want to think about how wet I am. Worse, my legs have gone weak, and I’m about to support him off his bike.
And despite it all, I almost want to get punished, just to find out what turns him on so much.
“Let’s… focus on one thing at a time,” I say, struggling to do that myself. “I need to get you upstairs before the doctor arrives.”
“It might be better to wait until he does.”
“You can’t sit here for the next half hour. We need to get you lying down, and elevate your leg.”
“Half an hour?” He doesn’t sound happy about it. “All right, let’s do this thing.”
He removes his gloves, then reaches for his chin strap with fingers that tremble.
More worrying than anything up to this point.
He’s further gone than I thought, and I’m concerned he could go into shock or something.
I’m not a medic; I don’t know. I just know he needs to be lying down before he falls down, because I sure as hell can’t get him up there if he’s unconscious.
And he can’t stay here, bleeding from a goddamn gunshot.
I’m about to offer to do it for him when he finally gets the strap open, pulling his lid off. He’s paler than I’ve ever seen him, face almost ashen.
Fuck.
“Good,” I say, with forced bonhomie, taking it off him and resting it on my bike. Then I step in close, sliding beneath his arm. “Okay, let’s do this.”
I brace myself as best I can, but when he swings his leg over his bike, my legs buckle, and it’s all I can do to keep from going down.
He’s fucking heavy. The movement rubs my injured arm and I grit my teeth, not wanting to make any noise when he’s so much worse off than me.
Then his right leg hits the ground, and I hold back a sigh of relief.
Declan hisses a breath, standing with his weight on his good leg, eyes closed and mouth pressed tight.
“Difficult bit done,” I tell him, trying to keep up my enthusiasm and not let my worry come through. “We just have to hop to the elevator.”
He gives a jerky nod, braces his arm on my shoulders, and takes a pace. His left leg is almost useless to him, and touching it to the ground makes him wince every time. Each step is a battle, his body tense with pain.
Tears prickle my eyes seeing him like this, and guilt washes through me again.
“I can hear your disapproval,” he mutters. “Could be worse. I could be dead.”
“Don’t talk like that,” I snap, not wanting to even consider it. Not when it could still happen, if Steven doesn’t get here soon. “And it’s worry, not disapproval.”
“The hellcat does care,” he says, smiling despite how he must be feeling. “That gives me strength.”
He makes the next few steps more easily, like that wasn’t just hyperbole, and I punch in the code to the outside door while he leans on me. I think he’s shivering.
“Six, seven, eight, nine, huh?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know why these places bother with security.”
I can’t argue that, but the door’s unlocked and I pull it open, struggling to balance him and wedge it at the same time. It’s another dozen tortuous paces to the elevator, and I hit the button. The elevator doors open, and we stagger in, his hand on the wall helping a lot.
“You want to get our helmets?” he asks, his speech not as clear as usual.
I do, but I don’t want to leave him. Under the lobby lights, he’s looking worse than I thought, his skin clammy. He’s trying to hide it, but now I’m certain he’s shivering. I’m not sure how he’s still on his feet, and if he passes out, we’ll be in real trouble.
“I’ll get them later.”
“You’re the boss.”
We ride the elevator up, and his breathing is shallow and fast. I want to check the time, see how far away Steven is, but I can’t reach my phone while I’m holding him up.
At least the hallway’s empty, and no one comes to investigate the noises we’re making. Declan uses the wall to help brace himself, and progress is faster. But he’s breathing harder by the time we reach my door.
“We’re almost done,” I tell him as I unlock it.
“That’s good,” he sighs. “Bed sounds—” He cuts himself off with a grimace. “Floor will do.”
“Bed,” I say firmly. “And no arguments.”
“I’m bleeding.”
“Exactly, asshole. That’s why you’re going to be lying down.”
He gives me a weak smile, no witty rejoinder, and we stagger into my apartment, the door closing behind us.
I bite my lip, not sure this is the right thing when he’s already trembling. “Going to have to get your jacket off, otherwise Steven might cut it.”
“Steven?”
“Doctor.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening.” His words slur, more alarming than the trembling.
I unzip his jacket, and he stands on his good leg, head forward, swaying slightly. The leather’s ripped where the bullet passed through, and sticky with his blood. I push it off his shoulders, and he winces, eyes shut tight.
“Sorry.”
“’S fine.”
One arm, then the other, his eyes closed for all of it, body tensing as I move his left arm, despite my best efforts to be gentle. It’s not just his fingers trembling now, it’s his hand, and his chest is quivering. I’m getting scared.
“Bed, please,” I say. “Come on.”
No response.
It’s eight steps to my bedroom, but it takes us three times that, small little hops as he does the best he can. At last we’re there, and he sits on the edge with a sigh, falls to his elbow, and stops.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “I can’t get… legs up.”
Not scared. Not scared. Not scared.
“No problem, I’ve got it.” I strain to pick his feet up, his legs heavier than I expect, but he’s finally on the bed, lying on his back, his upper chest rising and falling far too fast.
I pull my phone out. It’s taken us twenty minutes to get him up here, and it’s ten till eleven. Nothing from Steven, but I don’t know if Kurt gave him my number. If he’s not here by eleven, I’m calling Kurt and raising hell.
“What do you need?” I ask.
“Helmets.”
“They can wait until Steven gets here.” Instead, I unzip his right boot, tugging it off. He sighs like that’s better. I’m loath to touch his left one. “Do you want the other off?”
It’s several seconds before he responds. “Please.”
I unzip that one too, easing it over his ankle as carefully as I can.
He still winces, tensing. His leather pants are ripped over his wound, and everything from there down is tacky with his blood.
He’s lost so much. His head sags back into the pillow, and his arm slides off his chest, onto the mattress. Limp.
I swallow hard. “Declan.”
No response.
“Declan.” I grip his shoulder, giving him a shake.
“Not… dead yet.”
“That’s not even fucking funny.” My glare is wasted; his eyes are closed.
I don’t know what else to do. He’s barely bleeding, the wound visible through the hole, just seeping blood.
With the bullet in, I don’t know if pressure will help more than it hurts.
He’s still shivering, and I draw the duvet over him, tucking him in. “Do you want water?”
His lips move like that might’ve been a yes, but no sound comes out.
I all but run into the kitchen, pulling my jacket off and throwing it on the couch, filling a glass and bringing it back. Just a few seconds away from him makes it all the more obvious how alarmingly grey he is.
“Here,” I say, feeling helpless, and so, so scared. “You’ll have to sit up.”
He doesn’t move.
I dig deep, using my strong voice. “Declan Hale, if you die on me, you’ll never get to punish me.”
His mouth curls on one side, and my heart almost bursts in relief. “’S a promise?” he slurs, head lolling with the effort of speaking.
I slide an arm beneath his shoulders, lifting him enough to press the rim of the glass to his lips.
He makes an effort to sip, but half of it runs down his chin, coating the week’s growth of stubble on his jaw.
He’s too heavy to lift for long, and he slumps back down against the pillow as soon as I release him.
An inch of the water has gone, but I’m not sure how much he drank. I think most of it’s now down his shirt, and he was already shivering. Damn it.
The apartment buzzer sounds, and I almost sob with relief, running to the intercom to let Steven in. I hit the release, open my door and wedge it, then return to the bedroom, standing where I can see both Declan and the entry.