Chapter 21 The Bloodline
THE BLOODLINE
DAMON
The doors to Mount Sinai Memorial Hospital swing open and I burst through, breathing ragged and frantic as I glance around, looking for Quin.
This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.
She can’t die. She can’t fucking leave me too.
I should’ve come with them. I should’ve manned up and gone on this stupid fucking trip. Maybe this wouldn’t have happened.
My gaze sweeps across the waiting room, gut twisting as families huddle around one another, tears and pained sobs echoing through the hospital. In the corner of the room, I find Quinton. His white dress shirt is stained with blood. Her blood. So much fucking blood.
Rage slithers through my veins.
“Where is she?!” My voice is too loud. Louder than the cries. Louder than the prayers.
He snaps his head at me, eyes bloodshot and weary. “She’s still in surgery,” he whispers, lifeless and weak. “She should… She should be out soon. I-I hope.”
I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. The hospital smells of antiseptic and fear, a nauseating mix that threatens to swallow me whole. Quin looks like he's been through hell and back, and I hate myself for not being here sooner. For not being able to prevent this.
"I'm so sorry," Quin mutters, his voice barely audible. "I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve had her room swept before…” His words trail off, a haunted expression crossing his face. “It’s my fault, Damon. It’s… If she dies…”
My anger dissipates, replaced by a heavy sense of shared guilt and helplessness.
“She won’t," I state with absolute certainty, as if I’m making a pact with God himself.
No more. You can’t take any more of the people I love.
Hesitating for a second, I take a breath and sink down in a seat next to Quin.
With a hand on his trembling knee, I whisper, “This isn’t your fault, Quin. Okay?”
“But it is…” His gaze remains on the checkered floor beneath our feet. “If I didn’t go to Texas… If I didn’t try and make things better…” He swallows, briefly glancing up at me, tears welling up in his eyes. “What did I do, D?” His voice breaks. “What did I fucking do?!”
I know exactly how it feels to be responsible for death.
I know that he wishes it were him. I know that he’s drowning in regret.
In sorrow. But I also know that she’s still alive.
That there’s hope. But nothing I say will help him.
No words will pull him out of the darkness.
Not until he sees her breathing. Not until he hears her voice.
All we can do is wait and hope.
And so we do.
I pace the hospital waiting room, my anxiety palpable with every step. Quin rubs his hands together, head dropped between his legs as he remains silent, unable to speak. The hours drag on like days. Like fucking years. It’s been too long. We should know something by now. There should be news.
A little after 4 a.m., the administrative doors swing open and a doctor dressed in blue scrubs approaches us, her expression grave. "Mr. Cavanaugh, Dr. Marquis.” My heart clenches, Quin’s face contorting with fear as he stands up. "I'm Dr. Sindhu. I've been overseeing Emery’s surgery."
My gut twists. "Is she okay?”
Dr. Sindhu takes a moment gathering her thoughts before explaining. "Emery is still in surgery. They’re closing her now.” I hold my breath. “We encountered complications due to her transplant history. She lost a lot of blood.”
My mind races with horrid scenarios. "Complications? What kind of complications?"
Dr. Sindhu clears her throat. "The penetrating injury to her pulmonary artery was more complex than anticipated. The bullet was found near the bronchus, which posed challenges during repair.”
Quinton's fists clench at his sides as he listens intently. "Is she stable?”
Dr. Sindhu nods, though her expression remains somber. "She's stable for now.”
Relief and worry mingle in my chest, causing my shoulders to sag. "When can we see her?”
The doctor offers a sympathetic smile. "In a few hours. I'll update you as soon as she’s able to take visitors.” Her eyes narrow and drift between Quin and me. “We’ll need to monitor her for a week after she wakes up and make sure the fetal stats remain stable.”
My knees nearly buckle. “Fetal?”
Confusion briefly captures the doctor’s expression but quickly morphs back to professional. “She's pregnant, sir.”
My eyes widen in shock. "She's what?"
Quinton swallows hard beside me, his face ghostly while. "How many weeks?"
"Seven weeks.”
Seven weeks. Seven fucking weeks. Pregnant. She’s pregnant. With a child. There’s a child growing inside her. A living, breathing…human. Inside of her. My mind spins, dizzying me.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Quin says as I attempt to wrap my head around the bomb dropped on us. “Let us know as soon as we can see her.”
“I will.”
I don’t notice the doctor leaving. I don’t notice anything. I don’t hear anything.
A baby. She’s going to have a baby.
Panic zaps through me as I’m taken back to that moment. The moment she left me for the first time.
The restaurant is lively. Music plays. Cutlery clinks. People chat and laugh. Alison and I sit across from each other. She’s wearing the necklace I bought her. It’s gorgeous. A reminder that she’s mine. That I won. That I no longer share.
A couple at a nearby table hover over their baby as it cries. Alison winces, her lips pursed as she glares in the direction of the newborn.
"I'm tempted to throw a piece of bread at its whining little head," she mutters under her breath. “This is a five-star restaurant. They shouldn’t even be allowed in here.”
I shoot her a scowl, not entirely surprised by her reaction but still taken aback. "Alison, come on. They’re clearly trying their best.”
“Their best? Sure.” She scoffs, rolling her eyes. "I don't understand why people insist on bringing their noisy, messy offspring to places like this. It completely ruins the atmosphere."
"What do you expect, Alison? It’s a fucking baby. Of course, it’s going to be loud and messy. But it’s a baby. A child.” I glower at her. “I’m sure those people sitting over there find being parents to be quite rewarding.”
Alison's expression hardens, her resolve unwavering. "I don't ever want that kind of reward. You know that. You know that I have goals that I want to achieve, and there’s no room for a baby in those plans."
I scoff. “Yeah? And what goals are those, Alison? Need I remind you where you came from?”
Her jaw drops. “You don’t get to do that, Damon. You don’t get to shove me back into the stripper box whenever it’s convenient for you, okay? I have a brain. You might not give a shit about it, but I have one.”
I cross my arms. “And what do you plan to do with that brain of yours, huh? Go on, tell me. Maybe I’ll finance your great ambitions.”
She clenches her teeth. “You’re a fucking asshole.”
“I’m not the one threatening to throw food at a child.”
“Grow up, Damon.” Alison abruptly stands up, tossing her napkin on the table. She glares at me. “I don’t think this is going to work between us. Clearly we want different things.”
“Sit down, Alison. You’re not going anywhere.”
She curls her fingers on the edge of the table and leans over, her breasts nearly spilling from her dress. “I’m leaving, Damon.” A sly smirk clips her lips as she cocks her head. “Can you guess where I’m going?”
My gaze hardens. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
She smiles at me, devilishly and defiant, and I want nothing more than to teach that mouth a lesson.
“You’re not the only man that can fund my ‘ambitions.’” She stands upright and grabs her clutch off the table.
“Have a good dinner among your peers.” She glances at the kid. “You’re in good company here.”
“Damon? Hello? Damon!” Quin's voice pulls me out of my reverie. I stand frozen, stunned by the news. Quin puts his hand on my shoulder, his concerned gaze flitting across his face. “Are you okay? Do you need water? I think you should sit down.”
I blink. “She’s pregnant.”
Quin swallows. “I heard.”
Anxiety flutters inside of me. “Who…” The question gets stuck in my throat, unwilling to make its appearance due to a fear of rejection, fear of the wrong answer. “Who’s the father?”
Quin shrugs, not nearly as affected by the news as me. “There’s no way of knowing at the moment.”
I clench my fist. “How did this even happen? She’s on birth control. She’s…”
“The pill is 99 percent effective if used perfectly, which means no missed doses,” Quin explains, his voice clinical. “Most of the time, it’s 93 percent effective. We appear to be in the 7 percent.”
I feel like I’m spiraling, trying to grasp some semblance of control. It’s statistically improbable. This shouldn’t have happened.
“She’s on birth control,” I repeat as if saying it out loud will make it all make sense. But it doesn’t. How did we end up here? How is she in surgery? How is she pregnant? Why is this happening? Is it a blessing? A curse?
Fuck.
Quin sighs. “It’s uncommon but it happens, Damon. It’s no one’s fault.”
I know he’s trying to offer reassurance, but it feels like cold comfort. My mind races through the possibilities and the timelines, trying to piece together the puzzle of paternity. It’s like standing on the edge of a cliff not knowing if I’ll fall or fly if I jump down.
God, I hope I fly. I can’t handle another fall.
Quin swallows, strained as he says, “We can get a paternity test if you’d like. She’s far enough along that…”
A paternity test. The mere thought sends a shiver down my spine. It’s like opening Pandora’s box, unveiling truths that could change everything.
“What about Emery?” My voice trembles. “Does she…” Oh no... “Do you think she knows? Does she even…” My gut clenches. “Does she even want kids?” My breath catches in my throat. “Her heart… Can… Can it take a pregnancy?”
Quin’s jaw clenches. “I’m not sure how her condition affects pregnancy, but I’ll find out.”
I sink into the uncomfortable waiting room chair, more panicked now than when I first stepped foot into this goddamn building. She’s alive. She survived surgery. It’s a miracle. A true, honest-to-God, miracle.
She’s a survivor. Emery’s always been a survivor. And her baby… Her baby could be a survivor too. Her baby. Our baby. Or his. It could be his. It could be Quin’s. Or, if Emery decides it's not worth the risk, it could be no one’s baby. That thought alone pains me.
“Quin…” I glance up at him, tone somber. “Will they be okay?”
His features harden. “Emery will be fine. She’ll be fine.”
I tilt my head heavenward to a God who has not been kind to me and pray that this time, he hears my cries.
Save them.