Chapter 25 Caged Thunder
CAGED THUNDER
DOMINIC
The monitors beeped in a steady rhythm that had become background noise over fourteen days of watching Cal breathe. Fourteen days of counting each rise and fall of his chest. Fourteen days of waiting for those mismatched eyes to open and stay open.
I hadn't shaved in a week and hadn't left the hospital except when Adrian physically dragged me out for food. My reflection in the window showed a man I barely recognised—hollow-eyed, unshaven, running on caffeine and fear.
Then Cal's eyes opened.
Not the brief, drugged flickers I'd seen before, but fully open, focused, and present.
“Dom?” His voice was rough and raw, and it was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard.
I was at his bedside before conscious thought caught up. “I'm here. I'm right here.”
His hand found mine, weak grip but there. “How long?”
“Two weeks.” The words came out rough. “You've been out for two weeks.”
Cal blinked slowly, trying to process. “Two weeks?”
“Yeah. You were shot. Surgery. Complications. You coded twice and spent four days on a ventilator because your lung collapsed.” I couldn't stop the words now they'd started. “There were times when the doctors said we should prepare. When the alarms went off and I thought—I thought I'd lost you.”
“Dom—”
“No. Let me finish.” My grip on his hand tightened.
“Four days ago, your heart stopped. Just stopped.
They brought you back, but it took three minutes—three minutes where you were gone and I couldn't—” My voice broke completely.
“I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything except watch them work on you and pray it was enough.”
Cal's other hand reached up and touched my face, found the wetness there. “You're crying.”
“Yeah. I'm crying.” I didn't bother wiping the tears away. “You scared the hell out of me, Cal. Watching you lie there for two weeks, not knowing if you'd wake up, if I'd ever get to talk to you again, if I'd ever—”
I couldn't finish. The tears were coming too fast now—two weeks of holding them back, two weeks of being strong because crying felt like giving up, two weeks of watching him hover between alive and not.
“Hey.” Cal pulled me closer, his grip weak but determined. “I'm here. I'm okay.”
“You're not okay. You were shot. You nearly died. Multiple times.” I leaned into his touch without caring how desperate I looked. “But you're awake. You're talking. You're here.”
“I'm here.” His thumb stroked my cheek, wiping away tears. “I'm sorry I scared you.”
“Don't apologise. Just don't do it again.”
“Can't promise that.” But he was smiling slightly, with tears in his own eyes now. “Not if you keep getting yourself into situations where bullets are flying.”
“Then we both promise. No more bullets.”
“Deal.”
I pressed my forehead to his, careful of the IV lines and bandages. Just breathing together. Both alive despite everything.
“When you went down,” I said quietly, “when the blood just kept coming, when you stopped breathing in the ambulance—I thought that was it. That I'd never get to tell you—”
“Tell me what?”
I pulled back and met his eyes, those mismatched colours focused on me with an intensity that made my chest ache.
“Tell you that you matter. That you've become the most important thing in my life.
That watching you fight for justice, for truth, for people you've never even met—it reminded me why any of this is worth it.”
Cal's eyes filled with fresh tears. “Dom—”
I cupped his face, gentle. “You threw yourself in front of a bullet for me.
You've been shot, stabbed, beaten, and you keep getting back up because you care too much to quit.
And I realised while sitting here that I don't want to do this without you.
Don't want to go back to existing instead of living.”
The door opened. Noah slipped in quietly, then stopped when he saw us.
“Sorry. I can come back—”
“No. Stay.” Cal's voice was rough but warm. “Please.”
Noah crossed to the bed, took one look at both of us with red eyes, and his expression softened completely. “You're awake.”
Cal tried to smile. “How bad was it?”
“Bad enough that Viktor's threatened to burn down half of London if Harrow walks free. Troy wanted to camp outside your door. Luka and Ash have been running security shifts.” Noah pulled up a chair and sat heavily.
“And Dom hasn't left. Not once. Adrian had to physically drag him out for food and had to restrain him from breaking into the operating theatre when you started bleeding internally.”
“You tried to break into surgery?” Cal looked at me.
“You'd stopped breathing again. They wouldn't tell me what was happening and I needed to know.” I didn't apologise. “Adrian stopped me before I made it past the first door.”
“He's been here the whole time,” Noah said. “Sleeping in that chair. Eating when forced. Refusing to leave even when the doctors said you were stable.”
“Of course he has.” Cal's grip on my hand tightened. “Stubborn bastard.”
“Look who's talking.” But Noah was smiling. “You've been unconscious for two weeks and the first thing you do is argue with him. Some things never change.”
“Can't help it. He's very arguable.”
“I'm sitting right here,” I said.
“We know.” They said it in unison, then both smiled.
Noah stood and moved closer to the bed. “I'm glad you're back, Cal. We all are. Viktor and Sebastian have been asking about you every day. Luka and Ash have been coordinating security. Troy wanted to camp out in the corridor but Adrian said no.”
“Tell them thank you. For caring. For being there.”
“They'll want to see you soon. When you're stronger.” Noah looked at me with an expression that didn't leave room for argument. “And you need to actually sleep now. In a real bed. For more than two hours.”
“I'm fine—”
“You're not fine. You're exhausted. And now that Cal's awake and stable, you need to take care of yourself.” Noah's voice was firm. “Go to Ravenswood. Shower. Eat. Sleep. Come back tomorrow.”
“I'm not leaving—”
“Dom.” Cal squeezed my hand. “Go. I'm okay. I'm awake. I'm not going anywhere, and Noah's right—you look like hell.”
“Flattering.”
“Honest.” Cal's smile was gentle. “I need you functional, not running on fumes and guilt. So go. Rest. Come back tomorrow and we'll argue some more.”
I wanted to protest, wanted to tell them I'd stayed this long and I wasn't leaving now. But Cal's eyes were already drifting closed, exhaustion pulling him under despite being newly awake.
“Fine. But I'm coming back first thing tomorrow.”
“I know.” Cal's voice was already fading. “Stubborn bastard.”
Noah walked me to the door. “He's going to be okay. The worst is over.”
“You sure?”
“I'm sure. He's awake, coherent, healing—all good signs.” Noah gripped my shoulder. “Now go.”
I left. Walked out of the hospital into afternoon sun that felt wrong after two weeks of fluorescent lights. Got in my car. Drove to Ravenswood on autopilot.
Cal was awake. Talking. Himself.
The worst was over.
I could breathe again.
I returned the next morning to find Cal sitting up in bed, complaining about hospital food and demanding his phone so he could check on the investigation.
Adrian was already there, leaning against the window with his arms crossed, radiating the kind of controlled authority that made people nervous without him saying a word.
“No,” Adrian said, his voice flat and final. “You're recovering. The investigation is being handled.”
“By who?” Cal demanded.
“By people I trust. People who know what they're doing.” Adrian moved from the window with predatory grace. “You built the foundation. Three years of investigation, meticulous documentation. You did the hard work. Now let others execute it.”
“I need to know what's happening—”
“You need to heal.” Adrian's tone left no room for argument. “Harrow's scrambling and making mistakes. My lawyers are building the case using your research. Everything's in motion. You don't need to micromanage.”
Cal opened his mouth to argue. Adrian's expression shifted, moving from firm to absolutely immovable—the look that made hardened criminals reconsider their life choices.
Cal closed his mouth.
“Good,” Adrian said. “Now. There are some things you need to know and some people you need to meet.” He pulled out his phone and sent a text. “I've been running an operation parallel to yours. Insurance. Protection. Building redundancy into the case in case Harrow managed to destroy your evidence.”
“What kind of operation?” I asked.
“Intelligence gathering. Asset protection. The kind of work that requires people with very specific skills.” Adrian pocketed his phone.
The door opened. Two people entered, a woman in her fifties and a man in his forties, both carrying themselves like people who had spent years in courtrooms.
Then a third person walked in.
Lori.
She leaned against the doorframe, dressed in black, her expression unreadable behind that familiar smirk.
Cal stared. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Working.” She pushed off the doorframe and moved into the room with unhurried ease. “Same as you. Different methods.”
“She's been working for me,” Adrian said, his voice calm and absolute. “For six months. Gathering intelligence on Harrow's network. Protecting my assets. Ensuring the investigation didn't get derailed by unfortunate accidents.”
“You hired an assassin,” I said flatly.
“I hired a professional. Someone capable of operating in spaces where conventional security fails, someone who understands that justice sometimes requires getting your hands dirty.”
“I'm very good at getting my hands dirty,” Lori added cheerfully.
Cal was still staring at her. “So Adrian was who you were working for. You've been watching us.”
“Yes. And I've been protecting you.” Lori pulled up a chair and sprawled in it. “Though yes, watching too. You're both very entertaining, especially when you argue.”
“Why didn't you tell us?” I demanded.