Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
Hendrix and Constantine haven’t answered me back, and I’m about to call Syn when Pyotr’s text comes in.
Pyotr: Just parked. Which room are you in?
Me: Third to the right.
Me: I haven’t been able to get hold of Dierdre.
My worry has been at level ten since I got into the ambulance with Tristan, and no one will tell me anything.
Pyotr: On it.
I pace the small, whitewashed room, its walls feeling like they’re closing in on all sides. I fucking hate hospitals. The sterile smell of disinfectant and rubbing alcohol do little to mask the stench of blood soaked into my skin and trousers.
I stop when a doctor walks in. “I want to see my brother.”
She writes her name on the whiteboard hanging on the wall next to the door. “I’m Dr. Samuelson, and I’ll be your attending—”
“I want to see my brother.” They wouldn’t let me go with him when they brought him inside. I was swiftly escorted through triage and into this room.
She gestures for me to sit down on the narrow ER bed. “I need to assess your injuries.”
“I’m fine.”
Her half smile is all business. “That’s for me to determine.” She adjusts the stethoscope draped around the back of her neck and pulls two nitrile gloves from a box.
“I want to see my brother.”
Quicker than her small stature implies, Dr. Samuelson blocks me when I try to go around her to get to the door. “He’s in surgery. I promise he’s in good hands.”
Surgery?
“What’s wrong with him?” I only noticed the bleeder on his head. Did he have internal injuries? Did I mess up the chest compressions?
Dr. Samuelson grips my forearm and tries to push me back when I make another attempt to get to the door. “As soon as I know, I’ll let you know. Now, if you could please take a seat and let me—”
“I appreciate you’re just doing your job. I really do. But if you touch him again, I’m going to break your fucking hand in a dozen very painful places.”
Syn stands in the doorway, one hand pressed over her very pregnant belly and murderous intent firing behind her pale-blue eyes.
“I beg your pardon?”
Syn steps inside the room and quietly closes the door behind her. “Please remove your hand from my husband before you lose it,” she threatens politely.
Husband.
I gawk at her, but her angry glare is aimed at the petite brunette dressed in blue doctor’s scrubs.
“Your husband has lacerations that need tending to.”
“He said he was fine.”
“You’re not a doctor. You cannot make that determination.”
“Do not make me repeat myself.”
Nine months pregnant, and Syn is still a beautiful force to be reckoned with.
Dr. Samuelson’s dark-brown eyes widen with recognition. She takes a step back and bows her head. “My apologies, ma’am. Please forgive me.”
Syn glances at me and rolls her eyes. She hates it when members of the Society kowtow in her presence. She may have stepped away from the Council, but everyone in our circle—hell, in the entire town of Darlington and at DF—knows who she is. What she is.
Without another word, the doctor slinks out of the examination room.
Syn gives me a thorough once-over. “Sit.”
I don’t argue. My ass obediently hits the thin padding of the hospital bed. “I thought we were divorced.”
She gathers some supplies from the drawers and sets them down next to me.
“I never tore up that stupid contract, so technically, we’re still”—she rips open an alcohol wipe— “whatever the hell we are. Stop smiling. I’m pissed as hell right now and likely to stab you with the blunt end of the medical scissors. ”
I wipe the grin from my face. “Have you seen him?”
She dabs at a cut above my eyebrow. “They called in a plastic surgeon to stitch up the gash on his head so he wouldn’t have a scar.” Her gorgeous eyes lift, and tears spill over like a waterfall of heartbreak. Seeing them almost destroys me. “Did you really have to administer CPR? Did he die?”
I take her face, needing to hold her. “He’s okay, Songbird. He’s strong. And stubborn, like someone else I know.”
Her hands join mine, our fingers threading. She breathes in deeply and exhales slowly. “Thank you for saving him.”
“He’s my brother.” It’s as simple, and as complicated, as that.
“And you’re my hero.” With deliberate tenderness, she presses her lips to my cheek.
I’ve never felt anything more wonderful in my life.
“Let’s clean these cuts, so they won’t get infected.
What happened to your shirt?” she asks, ripping paper towels from the dispenser and wetting them under the faucet.
I peer down at myself. I completely forgot about that, and no one offered me scrubs or anything when I was brought to the room.
“Tristan,” is all I say.
Wringing out the excess water from the paper towels, Syn looks over her shoulder. “I need to know what happened.”
“I’m not sure yet.”
Starting with my face, she gently wipes away the caked-on blood. “What’s your first thought?”
“Ambush.”
Her hand stops on my neck, and I sense the “switch” just as it happens.
It’s not Syn looking at me now. It’s Aoife.
It’s hard to explain, but I see it. Syn once tried to tell me how it felt like she was two different people.
Her past self, the weapon James raised her to be, and the person she is now, the woman who wants more out of life than the destiny she was given.
“Where’s Dierdre? She left about five minutes before we did.”
Syn tosses the paper towels into the red biohazard wastebin. “She wants to see you, but I told her to stay in the waiting room.”
“I tried to call her. Why didn’t she answer?”
Tearing open a packet of antibacterial ointment, Syn deftly applies it to the shallow cuts covering my face. “I couldn’t reach her either. Luckily, we passed by her on the road on our way here. Apparently, her phone died, and she couldn’t find her charger.”
Dierdre’s safe. That’s all that matters.
As Syn works on my cuts, she winces a few times.
“The baby?”
Another wince. “He loves to torture me by using my bladder as a trampoline to do backflips.” She sucks in a breath and grabs her stomach. “Nope. He’s doing a full Olympic gymnast floor routine. Ouch.” Her reassuring smile doesn’t lessen my concern.
I splay my hand over her taut, hard abdomen. I don’t like to see her in pain of any kind. “What can I do?”
“Induce labor?” She finishes tending to the cuts on my face, and sparks ignite over my skin when she trails her fingertips down my arm to my hand, turning it over. “You’ve got some cuts here, too,” she says, swiping her thumb over the palm.
My phone goes off, the chime loud in the quiet that has suddenly filled the room. It’s probably Pyotr, letting me know he found Dierdre in the waiting room.
“Superficial. Nothing bad.” It becomes hard to breathe, the simple brushstrokes of her thumb causing havoc with my heart rate.
She brings my hand to her mouth and sweeps her lips over the D-E-V-I-L inked over each knuckle. “I’m going to kill whoever did this,” she whispers.
The door cracks open, and Constantine pokes his head in. “Sweet girl, he keeps asking for you.”
Syn lights up at the news. “He’s out?”
His coal-dark eyes land on our joined hands. “In recovery. Still groggy from the anesthesia. They’re going to move him up to a private room.”
“Coming.” She turns back around and hugs me. “Thank you…oh, fuuuck.” We both look down at the wet puddle spreading across the floor around her feet.
“Syn?” Constantine says in alarm, rushing into the room.
She looks up at him, the biggest smile creasing her cheeks. “I think my water just broke.”
On June fifth at eleven thirty-nine p.m., Fénix Aodh Fitzpatrick came screaming into the world.
A boy.
Just like Syn said.
Seven pounds, ten ounces. Twenty-one inches long. With a full head of dark hair and dark eyes like Constantine’s.
The second I saw him swaddled in Syn’s arms, he stole my heart.
Just like his Mama did.