52. Killian
KILLIAN
The drive from the hospital takes over two hours. Gabe navigates back roads I don't recognize. Every pothole, every slight shift in the suspension, sends a hot spike of pain radiating from the healing incisions in my chest.
The seatbelt bites into my collarbone. Gabe takes a corner too fast, pulling the skin tight across my ribs. My hand twitches automatically toward the hip where my gun should be, grabbing nothing but the hospital scrubs they sent me home in.
Ellie sits beside me in the back seat. Her hand rests on my thigh.
She isn't hovering, but I can feel the hyper-vigilance vibrating off her.
She hasn't slept properly in nearly two weeks.
Neither have the rest of the guys. They rotated shifts outside my hospital door, maintaining the alias, waiting for the Order to show up while my body fought to stabilize.
I stare out the tinted window. Freedom doesn't feel like fresh air. It feels like vulnerability.
"The new safe house is clean," Gabe reports from the driver's seat. He hasn't stopped checking the rearview mirror since we left the city limits. "Different direction from the old one. Enhanced security features. Jackson's already done a full sweep."
I don't say anything. I watch his eyes in the mirror, constantly flicking to the rearview, watching the exact same blind spots I am.
"How much property?" I ask, watching unfamiliar suburbs bleed into dense tree lines.
"Five hundred acres. Mostly wooded. House is set back." Gabe takes a sharp left onto an unmarked gravel road. "Previous owner was a tech exec with a paranoia streak. Dropped a fortune on perimeter security before relocating overseas."
Ellie squeezes my leg. "Gabriel sent photos while you were in recovery. It has big windows and natural light. You'll love it."
Big windows mean long sightlines. Good for seeing them coming. Bad for stopping a sniper round.
We turn onto a winding driveway choked by mature oaks.
The canopy overhead blocks out the late spring sun.
The house comes into view gradually. A low, concrete-and-steel structure designed to blend with the surrounding landscape rather than dominate it.
Solar panels on the roof, subtle security cameras positioned at strategic angles, a geometric fortress of concrete and oak beams.
Jackson steps out onto the porch as Gabe cuts the engine. Kai follows him, propping the heavy front door open with his shoulder. In his hands is a haphazardly taped banner that reads Discharged and Dangerous in thick black marker.
I stare at the crooked letters. It's so genuinely ridiculous that a sharp, unexpected laugh catches in my throat, immediately punishing my ribs.
But beneath the joke, their posture gives them away. Jackson's weight is shifted onto the balls of his feet. Kai's knuckles show white against the edge of the doorframe, his shoulders locked until the electronic gate at the road clangs shut.
Gabe opens my door. I swing my legs out, my boots hitting the gravel heavily. My knees threaten to buckle on the first step, a sharp heat tearing across the stitches in my chest. Gabe's hand clamps onto my elbow to steady me. I feel so fucking ridiculous.
"Jackson hard-wired the interior feeds into the existing security system," Gabe murmurs, keeping his grip steady as we start toward the porch. "Motion sensors extend out to the property line. Keypad entry at the gate."
I pause at the heavy steel threshold. It hits me for a fraction of a second how close I came to never walking through another door again.
I bled out. I flatlined in an OR. Yet here I am, stepping out of the cold air and into a house that's secure.
Ellie's arm slides around my waist the second we cross into the foyer, her physical warmth grounding the surrealness of still being alive.
"Kitchen's fully stocked," Jackson says as we move through the main living space. He doesn't ask how I feel. He knows I wouldn't answer anyway. "Gabe bought enough food to survive a siege. The master bedroom is at the back."
We head down a short corridor to the master at the back of the house.
The solid-core door is heavy enough that Jackson has to throw his shoulder into it to force it open.
Inside, it's pitch black. The blackout shades are already pulled down.
Someone has piled extra pillows against the headboard of the bed, knowing my healing collapsed lung won't let me sleep flat on my back.
"It's perfect," Ellie says, gently guiding me to sit on the edge of the mattress. "Thank you. All of you."
"Family takes care of family," Gabe says with a nod. He taps the doorframe twice and walks out.
The heavy door clicks shut. I drop my head back against the stack of pillows, staring into the pitch black.
For the first time in nearly two weeks, there are no nurses, no ICU monitors.
Just Ellie, the silence, and the painful pull of the stitches across my chest. She rests her hand on my forehead for a second before she slips out to let me rest.
Ten minutes later, Kai pushes through the door with his medical bag slung over his shoulder.
"Jesus, fuck. I can smell you from here. Get your ass in the shower." He cuts away the stiff hospital scrubs I was discharged in and inspects the long line of stitches tracking down my sternum before aiming a thumb toward the en-suite bathroom.
The hot water feels fucking incredible. It strips nearly two weeks' worth of sweat, death, and iodine from my skin, pulling me out of the hospital haze and back into my own body.
When I step back into the bedroom with a towel wrapped low around my hips, Kai redresses the wound with fresh gauze and heavy medical tape.
It hurts like a motherfucker, but I don't give him the satisfaction of a flinch.
When he's done, he hands me a pair of dark gray sweatpants and a loose black t-shirt, helping me navigate my injured body through the fabric before packing his kit and leaving me alone in the dim room.
I spend the next few hours staring at the shadows on the ceiling.
Without the constant hum of the ICU or the rhythmic beep of the monitors, the silence is deafening.
It leaves too much room for the thoughts I've been trying to outrun.
I'm a weapon with a broken firing pin, sitting in a concrete box while the rest of the world moves on outside the door.
My ribs ache with every shallow breath. I turned them all into targets, and I'm too fucked up to even hold a gun to back them up.
The bedroom door creaks open. Gabe stands in the frame holding a tablet, with Ellie right behind him.
I didn't even hear them move down the hall.
She looks better than she did a few hours ago.
She's showered and changed into clean clothes, her hair still damp at the ends.
The frantic, haunted exhaustion in her eyes has been diluted by a few hours of actual sleep.
Gabe steps into the room, but Ellie hangs back in the shadows near the door.
"Since you're so busy laying around doing nothing," he says, his voice dry. "We should talk about whatever Kai decrypted from Julian's servers. Locations. Financials. Psychological profiles."
"No," Ellie interjects from the corner of the room. Her voice is steel. "Not today. Business can wait until tomorrow."
I look at her. Then I look at Gabe.
He lets out a short laugh and raises both hands in surrender. He pockets the tablet. "Yes, ma'am," he says, disappearing down the hall.
Gabe pulls the door shut behind him.
Ellie sits on the very edge of the mattress.
She’s swapped her hospital-stained clothes for a clean hoodie and leggings, and the orange scent of her shampoo has replaced the metallic tang of the ICU that’s been clinging to her for days.
Even with the nap, her spine is still rigid, her feet planted flat on the floorboards like she’s ready to bolt.
"How does it feel?" Her eyes track over the thick bandages taped to my chest.
I watch her eyes trace the heavy gauze. She swallows hard, her throat working against whatever she's holding back.
"It hurts," I tell her. It's the only safe, honest truth I can offer.
Her fingers freeze on the edge of the comforter.
She looks up at me. "Dr. Martinez said the nerve pain might peak this week.
" She looks down at her fingers fiddling with the thick fabric covering the bed.
"You should have stayed at the hospital.
They could give you something stronger for your chest."
"I don't mean my chest, Ellie."
Her eyes snap up to mine. She doesn't blink, her gaze darting over my expression as she braces for whatever's coming.
"I love you." I clamp my left hand against the bandages to brace my ribs, using my right arm to push myself higher against the pillows. The stitches pull, a quick, hard reminder that the hospital drugs are already wearing off.
She pulls the hoodie sleeves over her knuckles one more time. Then she lets out a shaky breath, crawling up onto the mattress until she's kneeling beside my leg.
"I told you in the hospital," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't regret it. Any of it."
Her hands are trembling as they hook into the collar of the oversized hoodie she's wearing.
It has the faded crest of the Mercer City Marauders, a minor league ice hockey team I only ever watched because their games consistently devolved into legal fistfights.
She pulls it over her head and drops it onto the floorboards.
Underneath, she's wearing one of my plain black t-shirts.
She crawls closer, the mattress dipping under her knees. She straddles my hips, her weight settling carefully just below my bruised ribs.
"Ellie," I breathe out, the sudden shift in gravity making my head spin. I can't move to pull her down. If I lean forward, the stitches across my sternum will rip open. I have to stay planted against the pillows, entirely at her mercy.
"Shut up," she whispers. Her mouth lands on mine.