Chapter Eleven #13
An hour passed. Then two. Other people came and went, their own dramas playing out in hushed conversations and quiet tears. Quinn remained, a statue of barely contained fury.
He turned to stare at the trauma room doors, willing them to open, to give him news, any news, about Sasha.
The antiseptic smell of the hospital burned his sensitive nose, and the harsh fluorescent lights made his head pound.
Or maybe that was just fear and rage working together to tear him apart from the inside.
He should’ve been there. Should’ve insisted on staying with Sasha instead of dropping him off. Should’ve known Marcus would be trouble after seeing him confront Sasha outside the café.
Finally, a doctor in blue scrubs emerged. “Family of Sasha Petrov?”
Quinn spun so quickly he nearly knocked over the chair. “How is he?”
The doctor—a woman with tired eyes and silver-streaked hair—gave him an appraising look. “Are you family?”
“I’m all he has right now,” Quinn replied, the words feeling like gravel in his throat.
“Mr. Petrov has suffered a concussion, three broken ribs, a fractured radius in his left arm, and multiple contusions. We've set the arm and wrapped his ribs. We’re taking him for a CT scan to rule out internal bleeding, but his vital signs are stable.”
“Will he…” Quinn couldn’t finish the question.
“Barring complications, he should make a full recovery,” the doctor assured him. “But he’ll be in significant pain for a while. Have the police been called?”
“Yes.” Another lie. The police wouldn’t understand what they were dealing with. This was pack business now.
“They’ll want to speak with him when he regains consciousness,” she said. “We’re admitting him for observation, at least overnight. You can see him after the scan.”
Quinn thanked her mechanically, his mind already racing ahead to what would happen next. Marcus and the coyote wouldn’t stop. They’d come back to finish whatever they’d started.
Which meant Sasha wouldn’t be safe, not until Quinn eliminated the threat. Permanently.
His phone buzzed again. Wade this time: Trail goes cold at river. Splitting up to search. Z says stay put.
Quinn typed back a terse acknowledgment then resumed his vigil. The waiting room slowly emptied and filled again with new worried faces as the night wore on.
Finally, a different nurse appeared. “Mr. Petrov has been moved to room 312. You can see him now, but he’s still unconscious.”
Quinn followed the petite woman in colorful scrubs through a labyrinth of corridors. The antiseptic smell of the hospital burned his sensitive nose, making him wish for the clean mountain air of home.
Room 312 was dimly lit, monitors beeping steadily beside the bed. Sasha looked impossibly small against the white sheets, his arm in a cast, face mottled with bruises. A bandage wrapped around his head, stark white against his red hair. An IV dripped clear fluid into his arm.
Quinn’s throat tightened as he approached the bed.
“Fuck, firefly,” Quinn whispered, pulling a chair close to his mate. He carefully took Sasha’s hand, mindful of the IV line. “I’m so sorry.”
The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only response.
The door opened, and Quinn glanced up to find Zeppelin standing there, his expression grim.
“How is he?” Zeppelin asked quietly.
“Concussion. Broken ribs. Fractured arm.” Quinn’s jaw clenched. “Did you find them?”
“Lost the trail. Must’ve had a ride stashed somewhere.” Zeppelin moved to stand beside him, looking down at Sasha.
“They won’t stop,” Quinn said, fingers tightening around Sasha’s limp hand. “Not until they get what they want.”
“Then we’ll be waiting,” Zeppelin promised. “Bayne and Wade are taking shifts outside. No one gets in this room without going through them first.”
Quinn nodded, his gaze lowering to his mate.
“We’ll find them,” Zeppelin placed a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “Marcus. The coyote. Whoever else is involved. All of them.”
“And when we do?” Quinn asked, his voice dangerously soft.
Zeppelin’s eyes met his, cold and certain. “They’ll wish they’d never set foot in our territory.”
Just as long as they were on the same page. There wouldn’t be cuffs or a hearing. Marcus and the coyotes would be dead.
The alpha left, his footsteps fading down the corridor. The steady beep of the heart monitor became a metronome marking time.
“I should have been there sooner,” Quinn murmured. “Should have followed you home. Made sure you were safe.”
Sasha’s eyelids flickered, but he didn’t wake. His breathing remained steady, face slack with sedation.
Quinn leaned forward, pressing his forehead against their joined hands. “When you wake up, firefly, I’m taking you home. Not to that house. To my home. Our home.” He looked up at Sasha’s bruised face. “No one will ever hurt you again. I promise.”
Outside the window, night had fallen completely. Quinn settled deeper into the uncomfortable chair, prepared for a long vigil. He wouldn’t leave Sasha’s side, not even for a moment.
Let Marcus and his coyote friends come. Quinn would be ready. And this time, he wouldn’t stop until they turned into a whisper only the wind remembered.
Chapter Nine
Sasha stared at the bizarre sandwich Jalen was making. Peanut butter slathered on both pieces of bread with pickles, banana slices, and what appeared to be crushed potato chips layered in between. Was he auditioning for Iron Chef: Apocalypse Addition?
“You’re actually going to eat that monstrosity?” Sasha asked, his good hand gripping the juice container that refused to cooperate.
“Don’t knock it till you try it.” Jalen grinned, pressing the top slice down with theatrical flair. The audible sound of chips crunching filled the kitchen, small pieces falling from the sandwich like a rockslide as Jalen picked up his creation. “The sweet and salty combination is life changing.”
Preston leaned against the counter, wrinkling his nose. “That’s an abomination against food.”
“Says the guy who puts kale in everything these days,” Jalen retorted, taking an enthusiastic bite.
Kale tasted like grass clippings, in Sasha’s opinion.
He attempted to pour juice into his glass with his nondominant hand but only succeeded in sending orange liquid splashing onto the counter. “Shit,” he muttered, setting down the pitcher to grab a few paper towels.
Preston reached for the container.
“I’ve got it.” Sasha pulled the pitcher closer to his chest, accidentally bumping his cast against the edge of the counter. Pain shot up his arm, making him hiss through clenched teeth. Holy. Fuck!
Jalen took a massive bite of his culinary crime scene, speaking around a mouthful. “Dude, it’s just juice. Not a test of your capabilities.”
“If I can’t pour my own drink, what’s next? Someone cutting my food into tiny pieces?” Sasha tried again, this time managing not to spill a whole lot, though the amount he’d poured wasn’t even enough to take his pain meds.
It was barely enough to wet his dry mouth.
“At this rate, there’ll be more juice on the counter than in your glass,” Newt observed from his perch on the counter, blue hair falling across his forehead as he leaned forward. “I could magic it into the cup for you.”
“No!” Preston and Jalen shouted in unison.
“Last time you used your skills, Bayne ended up with purple hair for a week,” Jalen reminded him.
Ten days after being brought here, Sasha had found out what kind of magic Newt wielded. It wasn’t wand or potion but chaos that backfired on him every time he cast a spell. Poor Bayne. His purple hair had been so neon he could’ve landed airplanes or guided lost ships through dense fog.
“That was an improvement on his previous style,” Newt argued.
Sasha couldn’t help but smile as he mopped up the spilled juice for a second time.
These three had somehow become the bright spots in his recovery.
Preston with his mother-hen tendencies disguised as casual concern, Jalen’s irreverent humor and weird food combinations, and Newt’s chaotic energy, which somehow managed to be both soothing and distracting.
Every day they would retrieve him from Quinn’s room, refusing to let Sasha sulk. They included him in movies and boardgames, and once they’d cooked dinner for the entire pack. Between the four of them, they had the combined culinary skills of four squirrels with a cookbook.
The local pizza joint had made a huge profit that night.
One evening the four of them had decided to drink wine, trying to appear cool while hanging out. They’d learned very quickly that wine and fae didn’t mix. From what Sasha had learned, preternatural couldn’t get drunk off of human alcohol.
Except fae.
Drunk Newt had been a hoot. Mayhem Magic Newt…not so much. It had taken Jalen two days to get his hair to stop looking like he’d stuck a finger in a socket. The strands had stood straight up, and no matter how many times he’d washed or combed his hair, it had been hopeless.
Liam had quacked like a duck for an hour.
Vaughn had ended every sentence with “bro” for an entire day, making Zeppelin threaten to yeet his beta out the front door.
Bayne had come into the room asking if anyone had hair product he could borrow until his order arrived. Hence the neon purple.
But Sasha had finally learned what a mate was and what it entailed. Mind blown. Forever? Bonded souls? Nope. He’d put that one on a back burner, deciding to deal with more immediate fires.
He attempted to pour the juice once again, but this time, his hand trembled too badly, ending in the same result. Another mess on the granite countertop. “Damn it.”
“I can get that for you.” Preston stepped toward him.
“I’m fully capable of cleaning up behind myself,” Sasha insisted, his voice sharper than intended. He softened it with a half-smile. “Sorry. Just need to…adjust my technique.”