Chapter 22 #2
"Blake," I say, leaning close. "Quentin's coming. The ambulance is coming. Luther's here. Grayson's here. Maceo's got the logs. You followed the rules, okay? You did. I know you did. You don't get to leave because your body's being stupid after you actually listened to us."
His mouth moves.
No sound comes out.
"Don't you dare," I tell him, and the words shake, but they hold.
"Don't you dare make me tell Rosalie you broke a promise before her birthday.
Don't you dare make me tell James you left a system unfinished.
Don't you dare make Samuel ask why nobody's answering fast enough. Stay here, Blake. Stay with me."
Behind Grayson, a small cry breaks through the hallway.
Rosalie.
The sound punches straight through me. Grayson's hand leaves my back, and when I look up, his face has changed.
The caretaker in him goes toward the children even while his body wants to stay with Blake.
He turns just enough to see down the hall, and I see what he sees: Rosalie in the side room doorway with her crown clutched in both hands, tears running down her face; James standing beside her, silent and too still; Samuel half-hidden behind Maceo's leg, asking what happened again and again because no one's answered in a way his fear understands.
"They're safe," Maceo says, already moving to block their view more fully with his body. His voice softens when he speaks to them, but it doesn't lose its steadiness. "Blake's sick. The doctors are coming. You're staying with Grayson for one minute."
Samuel asks, "Did he fall?" and the question comes out small enough that Luther closes his eyes.
Grayson goes to them, not far, just enough to crouch in front of the doorway while still keeping Blake in sight.
He draws Rosalie into one arm and puts his other hand on James's shoulder, watching James's blank face with a fear I can feel through the bond.
"He fell, baby," Grayson says, voice low and careful.
"Quentin's coming. We're helping him. I need you to stay right here with Maceo and me. "
James doesn't ask anything. That scares Grayson more than Samuel's questions. I know because I feel the sudden hollow drop in him, the way his worry changes shape around James's silence.
Blake makes a sound under my hand.
I look down so fast my vision blurs. His eyes open partway, unfocused and dark with confusion. His lips are colorless. He looks at me without seeming to understand where we are, and then his brow tightens as if pain catches up all at once.
"Luca," he breathes.
"I'm here." I bend over him, tears falling onto his temple now, my voice breaking and steady at the same time because Quentin said to keep talking and Ember House taught me that steady doesn't mean dry-eyed. "I'm right here. You scared me. You scared all of us. Don't move."
His fingers twitch against the carpet. "Dorian."
"Gone," Luther says from the other side, voice low with a fury he's holding on a leash because Blake's awake enough to hear him. "You made him back off. The materials are preserved. You did it."
Blake's eyes shift toward Luther, then lose focus again.
"You did it," I repeat, because he needs to hear it from me too. "You protected me. You protected Ember House. Now you have to stay while everyone else protects you."
Quentin arrives before the ambulance.
I hear his shoes first, fast against the hall, then he's there with a medical bag in one hand and a face so focused it makes the rest of the hallway sharpen around him.
He doesn't waste time on shock. He drops beside Blake, looks once at my hand on Blake's chest, and says, "Good, Luca.
Keep talking to him unless I tell you to move. "
I nod so hard I almost lose my balance.
Quentin checks Blake with quick, practiced hands.
Stethoscope. Pulse. Pupils. Monitor. He asks Luther for the lunch dose time, and Luther answers immediately.
He asks me about breakfast, sleep, pain, whether Blake complained of dizziness before the meeting.
I answer through tears because I know these answers matter, and because every answer proves we were trying.
"He ate," I say. "Toast, fruit, half the smoothie. He slept after the call yesterday, and last night he slept with us. He took the pills. Luther watched the lunch one. I watched the morning one. We didn't let him skip them."
Quentin's expression doesn't soften, but his voice does. "I hear you."
Luther leans forward. "Quentin, if the medication was in him, why didn't it stop this?"
"Because medication lowers risk," Quentin says, attaching a portable lead with firm, efficient movements.
"It doesn't make a stressed heart invulnerable.
We'll talk about mechanism at the hospital.
Right now, I need you to keep the hallway clear and let me hand him over cleanly when the ambulance arrives. "
Luther nods like the words cost him something to obey.
The paramedics reach us minutes later through the private elevator Grayson had cleared.
The hallway fills with equipment, wheels, clipped questions, the smell of cold air from outside.
Quentin gives them the summary before they can ask twice.
Cardiac history. Collapse. Irregular rhythm.
Medication taken. Acute stress event. Monitor logs available.
He speaks in a language that turns my terror into facts other people can use, and I hate him for one second because facts aren't enough to hold Blake's hand.
Then Blake's fingers curl weakly around mine.
I forgive Quentin immediately.
The paramedics lift Blake onto the gurney, and I stand with him because letting go isn't possible.
His eyes are closed again, oxygen mask against his face, skin still too gray beneath the office lights.
The straps make him look like someone being taken from me instead of someone being helped, and I know that's panic talking, but knowing doesn't make my hand open.
"I'm coming with him," I say.
No one argues at first. Then one of the paramedics says there's room for one in the ambulance, and the words ripple through the pack like a second impact.
Luther's already moving toward me, not to take the place, not to pull rank, but to make sure I don't have to fight for it while my hands are shaking.
"Luca goes," he says.
Grayson appears beside me with Rosalie still crying against his shoulder and James tucked close to his side. His eyes are red, but his voice is steady when he says, "We'll bring the kids. Maceo and I'll be right behind you."
Samuel's voice rises behind Maceo. "Where's Daddy Blake going?"
"To the hospital," Maceo tells him, crouching so he's lower, so his body stays between the children and the gurney while still telling the truth. "The doctors are helping his heart. We're all going."
"All of us?" Samuel asks.
"All of us," Maceo says.
I follow the gurney toward the elevator with one hand on the rail and the other still wrapped around Blake's fingers.
Quentin walks on the other side, already speaking to the hospital, his voice low and fast. The elevator doors open, and for one horrifying second the space narrows.
A paramedic shifts. Someone tells me to step back. Blake's hand slips.
I make a sound I don't recognize.
Then Luther's hand closes around mine from behind, hard and warm and real. He doesn't pull me back. He holds on and moves with me, anchoring me as the gurney rolls forward and the elevator swallows us in bright metal and reflected fear.
"You're with him," Luther says near my ear, and his voice breaks on the last word. "I've got you. We've got both of you."
I look down at Blake's closed eyes, at the fog of his breath against the oxygen mask, at the pale fingers still caught in mine. My tears keep falling, but my spine stays straight.
"Don't you dare," I whisper again as the doors close. "We're not done."