Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
TWIGGY
Waking up feels like surfacing through syrup.
Everything is too bright and too white, and my tongue tastes like chemical and cotton and fear.
For a second, I don’t know where I am.
Then I hear it, a steady, low murmur near my ear. A familiar Irish rasp, worn hoarse.
“—you’re okay, Tally-girl. Come on back. That’s it. You’re just bein’ dramatic now.”
I know that voice. I chase it.
My eyelids feel like they’re glued shut, but I drag them up anyway.
The ceiling is a bland off-white rectangle, tiles and fluorescent lighting humming. There’s a monitor beeping somewhere near my head. The air smells like antiseptic and over-brewed coffee.
Hospital, my brain supplies sluggishly.
My hand is heavy and warm…because it’s sitting inside someone else’s.
I turn my head, and there he is.
Bran’s slumped in the chair at my bedside like he’s been poured into it. His hair is a mess, his jaw shadowed, his gray T-shirt wrinkled and smudged. There’s a bruise blossoming along his shoulder where it peeks out from the collar—angry purple against pale skin.
He’s holding my hand like it’s the only thing tying him to the planet.
I try to say something, but it comes out as a croak.
He reaches with his free hand and lifts the cup, placing the straw against my mouth.
“Small sips,” he orders. “You had enough chemicals in you for one day.”
I drink, long, thirsty pulls. The water is cool and glorious, making my throat burn and then loosen.
Pulling back, I lick my lips.
“What…happened?” I manage.
His face tightens.
“You don’t remember?” he asks.
“I remember the bathroom,” I say slowly. “I…was washing my hands. The door moved.” My stomach lurches. “Henry.”
His grip on my hand tightens. He doesn’t affirm anything. He doesn’t have to.
It’s written all over him.
“Chloroform?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Something like it,” he says. “Paramedics think so. He had you out in seconds.”
A ghost of sensation ripples over me—cloth against my mouth, his breath in my ear, the slick slide toward nothing.
I shudder.
Bran’s thumb starts rubbing circles on the back of my hand like he can scrub the memory out.
“He tried to take you out the back,” he says quietly. “I saw him in the alley. He was almost to the street.”
Panic spikes, sharp and hot.
“Did he—” I start, then choke on it. “Did he…hurt anybody? Here? Any kids?”
“No,” he says immediately. “No. It was just you he wanted. He didn’t touch anyone else.”
Relief and horror tangle.
“Did you hit him?” I ask. “Please tell me you at least broke a tooth.”
His mouth twists.
“I had a shot,” he says.
“Okay…” I say slowly.
“I missed,” he finishes.
The room seems to narrow.
“You…ohh, Bran.” The look of defeat in his eyes makes sense now. “Is he still out there?”
He meets my eyes, unflinching. “Yes.”
I close my eyes, forcing back the tears.
“I was afraid I would hit you.” He drops his face into his hands.
“Then I was afraid not to shoot, afraid he would just toss you in the car and leave. It was the single-most terrifying moment of my life, Tink. I could’ve taken an easier shot, killed him with more certainty, but it would’ve put you in more danger… and I just…couldn’t.”
My stomach flips. I swallow, hard. “I’m…so sorry, Bran—”
“Look at me,” he says.
I do.
“This isn’t me askin’ you for a gold star,” he says.
“You get to be mad. You get to say you wish I’d taken him out.
There’s a part of me that wishes it too.
” His thumb brushes my knuckles. “But if you’re askin’ if I’d make a different choice with a different split second?
I wouldn’t. I’ll always take your heartbeat over his blood. ”
My eyes sting.
“That’s a very unfair thing to say to a girl you’re sleeping with,” I mutter, voice watery.
A shaky laugh slips out of him.
“Well,” he says. “Good. Maybe it’ll keep you from kickin’ me out of your bed.”
“Hospital bed,” I correct. “Do your job, Kelly, this is a professional environment.”
He huffs.
There’s a knock on the doorframe.
Jack steps in, hat in his hands, lines carved deep into his face. He looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks, even though it’s been…what? Hours?
“Hey, Gentry,” he says softly. “Look who decided to rejoin the land of the conscious.”
“Didn’t want to miss the drama,” I say.
He exhales, something like relief flickering.
“How you feelin’?” he asks.
“Like I licked a bus window,” I say. “Headachey. Floaty.”
He steps closer, eyes softening.
“You scared the hell outta me,” he says quietly. “Again.”
“I scared myself,” I admit.
He reaches out like he’s going to pat my hand, then seems to remember Bran’s got a death grip on it and settles for squeezing my shoulder instead.
“You rest,” he says. “Docs say once they flush the last of whatever he used, you’ll be yourself again. And then you and I are gonna have a very stern talk about hallway protocols.”
“I had a chaperone,” I protest. “Maris must’ve gone up to the front for something.”
“She already chewed herself out for that,” he says. “No need for you to join in.” He tilts his head, listening.
Raised voices filter down the hall.
One of them is unmistakable.
A string of Irish curses, sharp and furious.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
Bran closes his eyes briefly. “Kael,” he says.
The door bangs open a second later.
Kael walks in like a storm in a tailored coat.
His dark hair is a mess, like he’s been dragging his hands through it since he got the call. His eyes go straight to me, raking head to toe, cataloguing every visible bruise, every tube and wire.
For one terrifying heartbeat, I think he’s going to cry. Then he sees Bran.
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees.
“You,” he snarls.
Oh, good. We’ve reached the homicide portion of the evening.
“Kael—” I start.
He ignores me. In three long strides, he’s across the room, fisting a hand in the front of Bran’s shirt and yanking him up out of the chair.
Bran lets it happen.
He doesn’t raise his hands. Doesn’t shove back.
He just stands, shoulders loose, letting Kael get in his face.
“You had one job,” Kael hisses. “One. Job.”
“Gallagher,” Jack says sharply. “Back off.”
“Stay out of it, Brady,” Kael snaps, not taking his eyes off Bran. “You’re the one who brought State in to play games with my family. I’ll talk to my man.”
“I can take it,” Bran says quietly. “I knew this was coming.”
“What did you think would happen,” Kael bites out. “When I warned you not to so much as look at her wrong?”
The air thickens.
Bran doesn’t flinch.
“I remember,” he says.
“And yet,” Kael says, voice dropping, “here we are. She’s in a hospital bed ‘cause you let that bastard get close enough to touch her. And I hear you’ve been—” his lip curls “—sleepin’ with her on top of it.”
Color floods my face.
“Maybe we don’t have this conversation in front of the nurse call button,” I say. “Or my literal body.”
“Stay out of it, Tallulah,” Kael snaps, still not looking at me. “You don’t get to defend him.”
Wrong. Absolutely wrong. Anger burns through the haze, clean and hot.
Bran’s jaw tightens.
“For the record, it wasn’t a matter of ‘lettin’ him’ do anything,” he says, voice low. “He’s clever. He found a crack. We’ll close it.”
“A crack you should’ve anticipated,” Kael fires back. “You think this is the first time I’ve had a man like him fixate on someone of mine? You think we don’t know how this goes?”
“This isn’t a turf war,” Bran says, and there’s an edge in his voice now. “This is a man who’s been learnin’ my girl’s habits for years, who’s already proven he’ll kill anyone in his way. You wanna play ‘what if’ with him, take a number. I’m busy keepin’ her breathin’.”
My heart stutters.
My girl.
Kael’s hand tightens on his shirt. “You call her that one more time and I’ll—”
“KAEL,” I snap.
Neither man bother to look at me.
I grab the plastic water cup off the tray and throw it.
It’s half-full, hitting Kael square in the chest and splashing water up into his face.
The room goes very, very quiet. He turns slowly, murder in his eyes.
“Did you just throw water at me?” he asks, incredulous.
“Yes,” I say, glaring. “And if I could get up, I’d do worse.”
“Tallulah—”
“Don’t ‘Tallulah’ me like I’m five,” I cut in.
“I am not a package that got mishandled, Kael. I am not broken dishes for you to yell at the movers over. I walked into this with my eyes open.” My throat tightens, but I push through.
“Bran saved my life tonight. If he’d gone after Henry instead of catching me, I’d be on a slab or in a coma.
You wanna be mad at him because you’re scared?
Fine. But do not stand in my hospital room and act like I’m an object you own that someone scratched. ”
He stares at me, stunned.
Bran looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe.
Jack is doing a terrible job of pretending he’s not amused.
“You sent him here,” I go on, jabbing a finger in Kael’s direction. “You signed off on him being here. You knew what he was, who he was. You don’t get to scream at him for doing his job and falling in love with me at the same time.”
The words tumble out before I can catch them, and silence slams down.
Kael’s eyes flick between us.
“Falling in—” he starts. “GODDAMMIT, first Brodie and now you. I’m going to lose another of you motherfuckers to this godforsaken bumfuck town.”
My face goes nuclear.
“Oops,” I whisper.
Bran’s hand tightens around mine again, like he wants to say something and can’t in front of this audience.
Kael swipes his wet sleeve across his face, like he’s wiping the whole moment away so he can start over.
He looks at Bran.
“At any point,” he says, quieter now, “were you goin’ to tell me you were breakin’ the one rule I gave you?”
“Yes,” Bran says.
“When?” Kael demands.
“Before,” Bran says. “Before tonight. I was workin’ on the words.”
Kael snorts.
“Words,” he says. “Jesus Christ, you’re all the same.”
He lets go of Bran’s shirt with a sharp shove.
Bran doesn’t stumble.