Chapter 25 Lyra
LYRA
The movie flickers across the screen, some old psychological thriller about a woman who thinks she's losing her mind. I watch with a lazy kind of amusement, curled up in Declan's massive California king bed, which feels too big without him.
I'm still in my robe, still waiting for him, though it's been longer than an hour.
I pull the duvet higher, trying not to think about how quickly I've adapted to this luxury. A week ago, I was sleeping on a shit mattress in an apartment with paper-thin walls. Now I'm watching movies on a television that's the size of me.
The woman on the screen is screaming now, and I laugh. Not at her, but at the absurdity of it. I've been her. More times than I care to count. Alone. Unraveling. Convinced the world is playing some cruel joke.
But not tonight. Tonight I'm warm and clean and safe. A car engine roars outside.
I perk up. That's got to be him.
My heart does that little jump, and I catch myself smiling. I'm starting to accept how eager I am for him to return, how my body responds to just the thought of him walking in.
I hear doors slamming, muffled voices. Something sounds off, too many footsteps, too rushed. The voices grow louder, urgent.
Then I hear a high-pitched woman's scream, and it's not from the TV.
I bolt upright as running footsteps pound up the stairs. I'm already on my feet when the bedroom door bursts open.
It's not Declan.
One of his men, I can't remember his name, stands in the doorway, his shirt soaked in blood. His face is ghost-white, panic etched into every line.
"Come quick. Declan's been hurt." His voice is firm.
"What?" The word leaves me as adrenaline floods my system, making my hands shake. "What happened?"
"Please, you have to help him."
I don't waste time asking more questions. I yank the belt on my robe tighter as I follow him. I fly down the hall, barefoot, barely processing anything.
"Is he okay? Where is he?" I ask, running behind the man down the sweeping staircase.
"We were ambushed," he says, not answering my questions.
I follow him past Nina, who's crying, sobbing actually. Her hands cover her mouth as she backs into the kitchen wall, horror carved across her face.
"What the fuck is going on?!" I yell, fear converting instantly to anger.
I follow the man around a corner, and my legs nearly give out beneath me.
Declan is sprawled across the dining room table, the same one where we ate breakfast this morning. Blood covers everything. The polished mahogany, the floor, his clothes.
Four men surround him, their faces grim. The dining chairs have been flung against the wall to make room.
Declan's skin is ghost-white, his shirt torn and soaked through, and his eyes are closed.
"OH MY GOD!" I scream and run to him, shoving one of the men aside.
When I get closer, I see Declan's face is gray; his lips are slightly blue. His breathing comes in shallow gasps.
One of the men turns to me. Shane. I know him. He's around a lot.
"He's hurt bad," Shane says, rubbing his forehead.
"Okay, what the hell does that mean?" I snap unintentionally, grabbing Declan's arm.
"Stabbed there," Shane points to a dark, saturated patch on Declan's left side.
I grab Declan's shirt and rip it open, buttons scattering across the floor. The wound is deep, ragged at the edges. A knife wound, not a clean one. Blood still oozes from it, thick and dark.
"Holy fuck. He needs to go to the hospital," I say, pressing my palm against the wound.
"No," Shane says firmly. "He said no hospitals. Just you."
I look at Declan, willing his eyes to open.
"Declan," I say, grabbing his face. "Declan, can you hear me?"
Nothing.
His skin is cold and clammy and he's too pale.
"Fuck. Fuck, I don't, I don't know what to do. He's losing blood. He needs..." My voice breaks. I have nothing here. No supplies, no equipment. Nothing to stop him from bleeding out on his own dining table. "I really think we should bring him..."
"The basement," Nina steps forward, wiping tears from her face.
I whip my head around. "What?"
"Come. Now. I'll show you. Hurry."
I look around at no one in particular; I can't seem to focus. "Keep pressure on the wound."
A man nods and I take off, chasing Nina through the house.
I take the corner too fast, slamming my shoulder into the wall. Pain explodes down my arm, but I ignore it, keeping pace with Nina as she leads me down a hallway I've never explored.
She throws open a door, revealing stairs leading down into darkness. I grip the banister as we descend, my hand streaking Declan's blood across everything I touch.
At the bottom, Nina fumbles with a light switch, then pushes open another door.
Fluorescent lights flicker on, so bright they make me squint. I step inside and freeze.
It's a fully equipped medical room. A hospital-grade gurney sits in the center. Steel cabinets line the walls, and I can see through the glass doors that they're stocked with medical supplies. There's monitoring equipment, an anesthesia machine, even an ultrasound.
"Jesus, he's got everything."
"You do," Nina says.
I turn to her. "What?"
"He started putting this together the day after you arrived. He was building a place for you. It was a surprise, but," she wipes away fresh tears, "I think you need it now."
Something catches in my chest, but I don't have time to examine the feeling. I rush to the cabinets, yanking them open. I grab IV bags, tubing, antiseptic, gauze, suture kits, gloves, IV kits. Fucking everything.
I throw some supplies into Nina's arms like a hurricane.
"Take these. Go!"
We bolt back upstairs. She almost slips on the way up but I catch her.
We rush into the room and Declan hasn't moved, but his breathing seems more labored. I dump my supplies onto the table beside him. Nina follows suit and steps back.
"Everyone back up," I order. "Give me room, please."
I rip open packages with my teeth and get to work.
First, I clean the wound. It's hard to do with how much blood is still pumping. It's not arterial, thank God, but it's close.
I grab a curved needle and start stitching, sloppy and fast. It's just to stop the bleeding. I'll do a better job later, but it'll do. For now, I pack gauze over it and tape it tight.
I turn to one of Declan's men standing behind me. "Put your hand here. Don't let go until I tell you."
He nods, placing his palm where I indicate.
I grab a bag of saline solution and thrust it at another man. "Hold this up."
I find a vein in Declan's arm, his beautiful arms that were wrapped around me just this morning, and slide the IV needle in. I tape it down quickly, securing the line.
"Higher," I instruct the man holding the saline bag. "It needs height to flow properly."
It won't be enough. He needs blood.
I roll up the sleeve of my robe and tie a tourniquet around my upper arm, tapping the crook of my elbow until a vein rises.
"Whoa, what are you doing?" Shane asks, eyes wide.
"I'm O negative. I'm going to give him my blood." I slide the needle into my vein, connecting it to the bag with anticoagulant.
"Jesus Christ, your own? Will it work?" Shane's voice is skeptical.
"I've done it once, but..." I pause, meeting his eyes. "I fucking hope so."
I flex my hand repeatedly, open and closed, watching my blood flow through the tube into the collection bag.
Every second feels like it's slipping through my fingers.
Declan is still pale, still unconscious.
"Don't let go of that wound," I snap at the man applying pressure.
He startles. "I'm not, I swear."
Halfway through filling the bag, my vision starts to blur around the edges. My legs feel like they're made of water. My fingertips tingle, turning cold.
I won't show weakness. I can't. So I keep going, watching Declan's chest rise and fall with each shallow breath.
When the bag is full enough, I remove the needle from my arm, pressing a gauze pad to the puncture site.
My hands shake as I prime the line for the transfusion. I warm the bag between my palms and connect it to the IV in Declan's arm. I start the drip slowly, watching for any reaction, then gradually increase the flow.
Within minutes, I see a change. The gray cast to his skin begins to fade. His fingers, which had been clenched in pain, slowly relax. His pulse strengthens, becoming more regular.
I'm holding the bag high, trying to get the blood to flow faster, when the room tilts. I stumble, crashing against the table.
Shane grabs my arm before I fall. "You all right?"
"Yes, yes," I lie, blinking hard to clear my vision. "Just from the blood I gave."
"I'll hold it here," Shane says, taking the bag from me. He gestures to another man. "Take a seat."
I want to argue that I'm fine, but I'm already sitting in the chair before I can speak.
The room swims before my eyes. My brain feels wrapped in cotton, thoughts coming slow and disconnected.
Shit, I may be given too much blood, but for what he's done for me, he deserves everything I have.
"Don't," I manage, my tongue thick in my mouth. "Don't stop the pressure. I stitched it up enough for him to recover; I'll fix it when..."
Everything gets fuzzy.
My eyelids droop.
The world goes black.