Chapter 8 #2
I try to follow, but hands hold me back.
"Give them room, Ingrid." Geirolf's voice in my ear, calm but firm. "Let them work."
"I need to—"
"You need to let them save him. You'll just be in the way right now."
He's right.
I know he's right.
But every cell in my body is screaming to go to Gunnar.
To touch him.
To make sure he's still alive.
They carry him through the medical room door.
Vail's there immediately, her hands already moving over her son's body, assessing the damage in a way that makes my heart ache.
How is she doing this?
How is she touching her own child's blood-soaked body and not falling apart?
"Knife wound to the left side," Hakon reports, his voice strained. "We stabilized it the best we could. Wrapped it tight. But there's been a lot of blood loss. Too much."
"Get him on the table." Vail's voice is steady. Almost too steady. "Aesir, I need saline and pressure bandages. Now."
"On it."
I push through the doorway, ignoring the hands that try to stop me.
I have to be there.
Have to see him.
Have to know he's still alive.
The medical room is small—barely more than a large closet with a steel table in the center and cabinets lining the walls.
Fluorescent lights overhead, harsh and unforgiving.
The smell of antiseptic and copper.
Blood.
That's the copper smell.
Blood.
Gunnar's blood.
They lift him onto the table, and I see the full extent of the damage for the first time.
His shirt is gone—cut away, probably, to assess the wound.
His torso is smeared with red.
The knife handle protrudes from his left side, obscene and wrong.
The makeshift bandage around it is completely saturated.
Blood pools beneath him on the steel table.
Drips onto the floor.
So much blood.
How can anyone lose that much blood and survive?
"Ingrid." Vail's voice cuts through my panic. "I need you to stay back. Against the wall. Can you do that?"
I nod.
I can't speak, so I move to the corner.
I press myself against the cold concrete and watch.
Vail and Aesir work—exposing the wound, checking vitals, hooking up an IV.
Gunnar lies motionless through all of it.
Too still.
Too quiet.
"We need to stabilize him before Reynolds gets here," Aesir says. "He's lost too much blood."
"I know." Vail's hands are steady, but I can see the tremor in her jaw. The tension in her shoulders. "Start the IV. Push fluids. We need to get his pressure up."
"His pulse is thready—"
"I know what his pulse is. Just do what I tell you."
Sharp.
Scared.
Underneath all that professionalism, she's terrified.
Just like me.
"Vail—" Dad’s in the doorway now, his clothes stained with Gunnar's blood. "Is he—"
"He's alive. For now." She doesn't look up from her work. "But if Doctor Reynolds doesn't get here soon—"
She doesn't finish the sentence.
Doesn't need to.
I stare at Gunnar's face, willing him to open his eyes.
To look at me.
To give me some sign that he's still in there.
Come back to me.
You promised.
You fucking promised.
"His pressure's dropping," Aesir announces. "Vail, we need to—"
"I know!" Her voice cracks. Just for a second. Just enough to show the mother underneath the medical professional. "I know. Just—give me a second—"
Her hands falter.
Hover over her son's body.
Shaking now.
Visibly shaking.
"Vail." Gwen appears in the doorway—Rati's old lady, also an EMT. Her voice is gentle but firm. "Let me take over. You shouldn't have to do this."
"He's my son. I'm not leaving him."
"And that's exactly why you need to step back." Gwen moves into the room, places a hand on Vail's arm. "You're too close. Too emotionally involved. Your hands are shaking. Let me help. Let me do this so you can be his mother instead of his medic."
Vail hesitates.
Looks down at Gunnar—her son, her baby, bleeding out on a steel table.
Her face crumples for just a second.
Just long enough for me to see the devastation underneath.
Then she pulls herself together and steps back.
"Okay." Her voice is barely a whisper. "Okay."
Gwen moves in, taking over.
Vail stumbles to the side of the room, catches herself on a cabinet.
Her whole body is trembling now.
I've never seen her look so small.
So broken.
"He's strong," I hear myself say. The words come out without permission. "He'll make it. He has to."
Vail looks at me.
Her eyes are red.
Wet.
For a moment, we're just two women who love Gunnar, terrified of losing him.
Then she nods.
"He's a fighter. Always has been. Even when he was a kid—stubborn as hell. Never gave up on anything."
"He won't give up now."
"No." She takes a shaky breath. "No, he won't."
On the table, Gunnar groans.
The sound cuts through the chaos—raw and pained and alive.
My heart lurches.
"He's coming around," Gwen says. "Gunnar? Can you hear me?"
His eyes flutter.
Open.
Unfocused, glazed with pain, but open.
He's awake.
He's alive.
"Gunnar." Gwen leans over him. "You're at the clubhouse. You're safe. We're taking care of you."
His lips move.
No sound comes out.
"What's he saying?" Vail pushes forward, unable to stay back. "Gunnar, baby, what do you need?"
He tries again.
His voice is barely a rasp.
But this time I hear it.
"In... grid..."
My name.
He's calling for me.
I push off the wall, move toward the table on legs that feel like they might collapse.
Gwen steps aside, letting me through.
"I'm here." I take his hand—it's cold, too cold, slick with blood that's probably his own. "I'm right here, Gunnar."
His eyes find mine.
Unfocused.
Confused.
But he sees me.
I know he sees me.
"Prom... ised..." he manages.
"I know." Tears stream down my face. "I know you did. And you kept it. You came back. You're here."
"Love... you..."
Even now.
Even bleeding out on a table with a knife in his side.
He's telling me he loves me.
"I love you too." The words pour out of me—finally, desperately, too late and exactly on time. "I love you, Gunnar. So much. So please, please don't leave me. Please fight. Please stay."
His fingers twitch in mine.
Trying to squeeze.
Too weak to manage it.
His eyes start to close.
"Gunnar?" I squeeze his hand harder. "Gunnar, stay with me!"
"He's losing consciousness," Gwen says calmly. "It's okay. His body's protecting itself. We need to keep working."
"Is he—will he—"
"He's fighting. That's what matters right now."
Fighting.
He's fighting.
I press my forehead to our joined hands, crying silently.
Please.
Please let him live.
Please give me the chance to love him properly.
Please.
The next fifteen minutes are the longest of my life.
I stay in the corner, out of the way but refusing to leave.
Watching Gwen and Aesir work.
Watching Gunnar's chest rise and fall—slowly, too slowly, but still moving.
Vail stands beside me now, her hand gripping mine so tight it hurts.
Neither of us speaks.
What is there to say?
Finally, finally, I hear commotion in the hall.
"Reynolds is here!" someone shouts.
A man pushes through the door—fifties, gray hair, carrying a medical bag that looks like it's seen better days.
But his hands are steady.
His eyes are sharp.
He takes one look at Gunnar and his expression shifts into something focused and calm.
Professional.
Competent.
This is a man who's seen worse and fixed it.
"How long?" he asks.
"About two and a half hours since the injury," Gwen reports. "Knife wound to the left side, still embedded. We've stabilized it, pushed fluids. Blood pressure's been dropping but we've managed to keep him conscious intermittently."
"Good work." Reynolds pulls on gloves, moves to the table. "I need everyone who isn't medical to clear out. Now."
"I'm not leaving." The words come out before I can stop them.
Reynolds looks at me.
Assessing.
"You family?"
"She's his—" Vail pauses, struggling for the right word. Then she continues. "She's family. She can stay. But against the wall, out of the way."
Reynolds nods, apparently satisfied. "Fine. Everyone else, out."
Dad hesitates in the doorway, his eyes on Gunnar, but Vail catches his eye.
"I'll stay with him. Go update the others. They need to know what's happening."
He nods.
Leaves.
The room clears.
Just me, Vail, Gwen, Aesir, and Reynolds.
And Gunnar.
Still unconscious.
Still fighting.
"I'm going to remove the knife," Reynolds announces, examining the wound. "There's going to be significant bleeding when I do. Aesir, I need you ready with pressure and cauterization if necessary. Gwen, monitor his vitals. Call out any changes immediately."
Everyone moves into position.
I press myself harder against the wall, making myself as small as possible and Vail stands beside me, both of us trying to stay out of the way.
Trying not to scream.
"Here we go," Reynolds says.
He grips the knife handle.
Takes a breath.
Pulls.
Gunnar's body arches off the table, a scream tearing from his throat even in unconsciousness.
The sound will haunt me forever.
Raw.
Primal.
Full of agony.
Blood—so much blood—pours from the wound.
"Pressure! Now!"
Aesir moves in, hands pressing gauze into the wound.
The white fabric turns red immediately.
Soaked through in seconds.
Reynolds works with quick, efficient movements—stitching, cauterizing, doing things I can't see but can hear.
The wet sounds of surgery.
The hiss of medical equipment.
Gunnar's labored breathing.
I can't look away.
Can't close my eyes.
This might be the last time I see him alive.
I won't miss a second of it.
Time becomes meaningless.
Minutes or hours, I don't know.
Just the endless cycle of Reynolds working, Gwen calling out vitals, Aesir assisting.
And me.
Watching.
Waiting.
Praying to Gods I'm not sure I believe in.
Please.
Please.
Please.
Finally—finally—Reynolds steps back.
Strips off his bloody gloves.
Drops them in a biohazard bin. "He's stable."
The words hit me and I almost can’t believe it.
My knees buckle.
I catch myself on the wall.
"He's—" I can't finish the sentence.
"Stable," Reynolds repeats. "The knife missed his kidney by about an inch. Any closer and we'd be having a very different conversation. It nicked his intestine, but I've repaired the damage. He's lost a lot of blood—more than I'd like—but with transfusions and rest, he should recover."
Should recover.
Not will.
Should.
"What does that mean?" Vail demands, her voice sharp with fear. "Should? What are the risks?"
"Infection is the main concern. The knife was dirty—no telling what bacteria it introduced. The next forty-eight hours will be critical. If he makes it through without fever or complications, he'll be fine." Reynolds pauses. "If not, we'll deal with it as it comes."
Not exactly reassuring.
But alive.
He's alive.
I push off the wall, move toward the table on shaky legs.
Gunnar looks smaller somehow.
Diminished.
Pale and still, bandages wrapped around his torso, IV lines running into his arm.
But his chest is moving.
Rising and falling with each breath.
Alive.
"Can I—" My voice cracks. "Can I stay with him?"
Reynolds looks at Vail.
She nods.
"Someone should be with him when he wakes up," Reynolds says. "Might as well be someone he wants to see."
I pull a chair to the side of the table, take Gunnar's hand.
It's warmer now.
Still too pale, but warmer.
"I'm here," I whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."
Vail approaches, puts a hand on my shoulder.
Her grip is strong.
Steady.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For being here. For loving him."
"I should've told him sooner. I should've said it before he left."
"You told him when it mattered. He heard you. I saw it in his eyes." She squeezes my shoulder. "He knows, Ingrid. He's always known."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"I'll be outside if you need anything," Vail continues. "The second he wakes up—"
"I'll call you. I promise."
She leaves.
Gwen and Aesir follow, giving me quiet nods of support.
Reynolds lingers, checking monitors, making notes on a clipboard.
"He's lucky," he says finally. "Inch to the left, he'd be dead. Someone up there likes him."
"Or he's just too stubborn to die."
Reynolds almost smiles. "That too. I've seen a lot of men on that table. The stubborn ones tend to make it."
Then he's gone.
And it's just me and Gunnar.
The room is quiet now.
Just the beep of the heart monitor, the soft hiss of the IV, the sound of his breathing.
I lean forward, press my lips to his forehead.
His skin is cool.
Clammy.
But alive.
"I love you," I whisper against his skin. "I know I should've said it before. I was scared. I'm still scared. But I'm done running. So you need to wake up, okay? You need to wake up so I can tell you properly. So I can show you what it means. So I can spend the rest of my life proving it."
No response.
Just the steady beep of the monitor.
But I stay.
Keep holding his hand.
Keep talking to him—about nothing, about everything, about the life I want to build with him if he'll just wake up.
About the future I never let myself imagine until now.
The night stretches on.
I don't sleep.
Can't.
Every beep of the monitor, every hitch in his breathing, sends my heart racing.
But I stay and I wait.
Because that's what you do when someone is your person.
You stay.
No matter what.