34. Sienna
Sienna
T he surgical doors slam shut right in front of me.
“Wait—”
Too late.
The lock clicks.
Voices rise immediately from the other side.
Medical orders.
Equipment moving.
Someone calling for more blood.
And suddenly I’m outside.
Useless.
My hands still covered with Jonah’s blood.
I stare at them.
Can’t move.
Can’t breathe.
This is my fault.
Every second of it.
“You need to sit.”
Ronan’s voice reaches me from somewhere to my right.
I don’t look at him.
“No.”
“Sienna.”
“I said no.”
Too sharp.
Too loud.
But I don’t take it back.
Because if I sit down—
If I stop moving—
This becomes real.
Ronan doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t push.
He just stands there beside me, solid and patient like he already knows exactly how this ends.
And he’s right.
Because my legs finally give out anyway.
I collapse into the chair across from the surgical room before I can stop myself.
The second I sit, my eyes lock onto the closed doors.
I don’t look away again.
An hour later.
The clock on the wall ticks loud enough to drive me insane.
Every second feels wrong.
Too slow.
Too quiet.
The blood on my hands dried a long time ago.
I still haven’t cleaned it off. I get up and wash my hands before sitting back down.
“Sienna.”
Lance’s voice pulls me out of the spiral just enough to look up.
He stands near the hallway entrance, tactical vest gone now, exhaustion written across his face.
Something tightens instantly in my chest.
“What?”
He doesn’t soften the truth.
Doesn’t lie.
“Bullet hit clean going in,” he says quietly. “But it tore through an artery on the way out.”
The room tilts slightly around me.
“He lost a lot of blood before we got him here.”
Pain locks around my ribs so hard it physically hurts to breathe.
Across the room, Cal leans against the wall with his arms crossed.
“He’s strong,” he says. “He’s still fighting.”
My eyes flick toward the surgical doors again.
“Ronan’s his blood type,” Cal adds. “He’s donating now.”
I shake my head slowly.
“Being strong isn’t enough.”
Because I know exactly how fragile the human body really is.
Strong doesn’t stop hemorrhaging.
Strong doesn’t reverse shock.
Strong doesn’t beat time.
My breathing sharpens suddenly.
Too fast.
No.
No, no—
I press both hands hard against my knees.
Force air back into my lungs.
Control it.
Piece by piece.
Not now.
I’m not falling apart while he’s still in there fighting.
“You’re spiraling.”
I look up sharply.
Ronan stands near the hallway now, pale from blood loss but steady on his feet anyway.
“I’m calculating,” I fire back immediately.
One corner of his mouth almost lifts.
Almost.
“Yeah,” he says dryly. “Looks exactly like it.”
I glare at him.
But I don’t argue.
Because he’s not wrong.
I’m calculating every possible outcome.
Every surgical complication.
Every way this ends badly.
And none of them leave me breathing right afterward.