CHAPTER 21
Gemma
The rhythmic thump of the tires hitting the expansion joints on the George Washington Bridge is what finally pulls me out of the dark.
I don't open my eyes right away. I lie perfectly still on the worn fabric of the Camry’s backseat, taking a slow, cautious inventory of my body.
The sharp, tearing pain in my left side has settled into a deep, heavy throb that radiates all the way to my collarbone.
The tactical jacket is stiff where the blood has dried against the denim of my jeans.
I take a shallow breath, testing the limits of my ribs. It hurts, but it isn't the blinding, white-hot agony from the underground garage.
I slowly open my eyes.
The interior of the car is dim, illuminated only by the passing orange glow of the bridge’s streetlights.
Ben is driving, his hands resting easily on the steering wheel.
The left side of his face is still swollen, the dark crust of blood near his temple a stark reminder of the violent collision that started this nightmare.
Callum is sitting in the passenger seat.
He isn't sleeping. He is staring out the windshield, his posture completely rigid. His dark hair is messy, and the black henley is stained with a mixture of plaster dust and Elias Vance’s blood. He looks like a man who just walked out of a war zone.
Which, technically, he did.
I shift my weight slightly on the seat. The fabric rustles.
Callum’s head turns instantly. He doesn't look over his shoulder; he just shifts his gaze to the rearview mirror, finding my eyes in the dark.
"We are fifteen minutes away," he says, his voice low and raspy.
"Okay," I murmur, my throat incredibly dry. I push myself up onto my right elbow, wincing as the movement pulls at my side. "Did anyone follow us?"
"No," Ben answers from the front seat. "I ran a counter-surveillance route through Manhattan before we hit the bridge. We’re clean. The syndicate is probably too busy panicking over their empty bank accounts to organize a pursuit right now."
I look at the back of Callum’s head. "You have the drive?"
"I have it," Callum confirms.
"Good." I let out a slow breath, leaning my head against the cold glass of the window. "Because if I got my ribs torn open for nothing, I was going to be incredibly annoyed."
Ben lets out a short, surprised laugh that ends in a wince as he touches his bruised face. "You’re bleeding out in the back of a stolen car, and you’re worried about being annoyed. You two are perfect for each other."
The comment hangs in the air, heavy and entirely uninvited.
Callum doesn't react. He doesn't tell Ben to shut up, and he doesn't agree. He just keeps his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
I bite my lower lip, looking away from the mirror.
The adrenaline is gone, leaving behind a terrifying clarity. We won. The money is gone. Marcus and Elias are dead. The immediate threat of being hunted by an army of mercenaries is over. But the absence of the threat leaves a massive, gaping hole in the center of the room.
For the last forty-eight hours, our entire relationship has been defined by survival. He was the protector. I was the asset. Every touch, every conversation, every desperate kiss was fueled by the very real possibility that we were going to die.
Now, we are going to live.
And I have absolutely no idea what that looks like.
"Turn right at the next light," Callum instructs, breaking the silence.
Ben hits the turn signal. We pull off the main highway, navigating through a quiet, industrial section of New Jersey.
The buildings here are low and square, surrounded by chain-link fences and empty parking lots.
There are no streetlights, just the harsh glare of security floods mounted on the corners of warehouses.
Ben pulls the Camry up to a nondescript, brick building with a faded sign that reads Apex Logistics .
He doesn't park in the front. He drives around to the back alley, stopping in front of a heavy, rolling steel door.
"This is the place?" I ask, looking at the dark, empty alley. "It looks like a chop shop."
"It’s a private clinic," Ben says, killing the engine. "Dr. Aris runs a trauma center for people who can't exactly walk into a public emergency room. He’s ex-military. He patched me up a few times when a drop went bad."
Callum is out of the car before Ben finishes the sentence.
He opens the rear door, the cold night air rushing into the cabin. He doesn't ask if I can walk. He reaches in, sliding one arm behind my back and the other under my knees, and lifts me completely out of the car.
"I can walk, Callum," I protest weakly, my hands automatically gripping the front of his shirt.
"You are actively bleeding," he replies, his jaw set in a hard line. "You are not walking."
He turns and carries me toward a small, reinforced metal door next to the rolling garage entrance. Ben is already there, punching a code into the keypad. The door unlocks with a heavy buzz.
Ben pushes it open, and we step inside.
The interior is a shocking contrast to the dirty brick exterior. It is a fully functional, sterile medical facility. The floors are white linoleum. The walls are lined with stainless steel cabinets, heart monitors, and surgical trays. The air smells sharply of bleach and iodine.
A man is standing near a central surgical table, pulling on a pair of blue nitrile gloves.
Dr. Aris looks to be in his late fifties. He has short, graying hair, a thick beard, and the calm, unbothered expression of a man who has seen terrible things and learned how to ignore them. He is wearing dark scrubs and a heavy lead apron.
He looks at Ben, then shifts his gaze to Callum.
"You brought me a mess, Ben," Aris says, his voice a deep, resonant baritone.
"She needs sutures," Callum says, completely ignoring the pleasantries. He walks straight to the surgical table and sets me down gently. "The original stitches tore. She has been bleeding for roughly an hour."
Aris walks over, pulling a penlight from his pocket. He doesn't look at Callum. He looks directly at me.
"What’s your name?" Aris asks, shining the light briefly into my eyes to check my pupil response.
"Gemma," I say, squinting against the glare.
"Alright, Gemma. Let’s see what we’re dealing with."
He reaches for the zipper of the tactical jacket. Callum’s hand shoots out, grabbing Aris’s wrist before the doctor can touch the fabric.
The movement is so fast and so violent that Ben actually takes a step back.
Aris doesn't flinch. He looks down at Callum’s hand, then slowly raises his eyes to meet Callum’s dark, lethal stare.
"If you want me to fix her," Aris says calmly, "you need to let me touch her."
Callum’s chest heaves. The muscles in his jaw are jumping. He is completely trapped between his obsessive need to protect me from any perceived threat and the logical reality that I need medical attention.
"Callum," I say softly, reaching out to touch his arm.
He looks down at me. The raw panic in his eyes is devastating. He isn't acting like a professional. He is acting like a man who is terrified of losing the only thing he cares about.
"It’s okay," I tell him, my voice steady. "Let him."
Callum stares at me for a long second. Slowly, agonizingly, he releases the doctor’s wrist and takes a half-step back from the table.
Aris doesn't comment on the interaction. He unzips the tactical jacket, pushing the heavy fabric aside. He uses a pair of trauma shears to cut away the ruined cashmere hoodie, exposing the bloody mess of my left side.
I hiss as the cold air hits the open wound.
"Deep laceration," Aris notes, pressing a thick pad of sterile gauze against the cut. "The original sutures were clean, but the tissue tore under stress. I’m going to have to clean the wound track and put in double-layered stitches to ensure it holds."
"Do it," Callum says from the corner of the room.
"I need to administer a local anesthetic," Aris tells me, preparing a syringe. "You’re going to feel a pinch, and then a burning sensation."
"I know the drill," I mutter, gripping the edge of the metal table.
The needle goes in. The burning sensation is sharp, but it quickly gives way to a heavy, numb feeling that spreads across my ribs.
"Alright," Aris says, picking up a surgical sponge soaked in iodine. "This is going to take about twenty minutes. Ben, go sit in the waiting area. You look like you have a concussion. I’ll check your head when I’m done here."
Ben nods, looking relieved to be dismissed, and walks out through a set of swinging doors.
Aris looks at Callum. "You can wait outside as well."
"I am not leaving this room," Callum states, his voice leaving absolutely no room for debate.
Aris sighs, shaking his head slightly. "Suit yourself. Just stay out of my light."
The doctor goes to work. I stare at the bright surgical lamp above my head, trying to dissociate from the sensation of the needle pulling thread through my skin. The numbing agent blocks the pain, but I can still feel the pressure, the tugging, the awful reality of my body being sewn back together.
I turn my head to the side, looking for an anchor.
Callum is standing against the stainless steel cabinets. He isn't looking at the procedure. He is looking directly at my face.
His dark eyes are intense, tracking every micro-expression, every flinch, every shallow breath I take. He looks completely exhausted. The blood on his shirt is a stark reminder of the violence he committed to get me here.
I hold his gaze.
I don't look away. I don't try to hide the fear or the vulnerability. I just let him see me.
Slowly, the frantic, protective energy radiating from him begins to settle. He doesn't smile, but the hard lines of his face soften. He gives me a single, almost imperceptible nod.
I’m here.
Twenty minutes later, Aris cuts the final thread.
"Done," the doctor announces, taping a large, sterile bandage over the fresh stitches. "The inner layer will dissolve on its own. The outer layer needs to stay in for ten days. No heavy lifting, no sudden twisting movements, and absolutely no more getting thrown onto metal tables."
"I’ll do my best," I say, my voice raspy.
Aris pulls off his gloves and walks over to a sink to wash his hands. "I’m going to give you a prescription for a broad-spectrum antibiotic and a heavy painkiller. You need to sleep. Your body is running on adrenaline and spite."
Callum steps forward, moving to the side of the table.
"Can she travel?" Callum asks.
Aris dries his hands on a paper towel. "I wouldn't recommend putting her on a commercial flight, but she can sit in a car. Where are you taking her?"
"Somewhere cold," I say before Callum can answer.
Callum looks down at me, the ghost of a smirk finally breaking through his grim expression.
"Yes," Callum agrees. "Somewhere cold."
Aris shakes his head, clearly deciding he doesn't want to know the details. He walks out through the swinging doors to check on Ben.
We are alone in the sterile room.
I sit up slowly, swinging my legs over the edge of the table. The numbness makes my side feel heavy and strange, but the sharp, tearing pain is completely gone.
Callum reaches out, his hands gripping my waist to steady me.
"Thank you," I say softly, looking up at him.
"I didn't do the stitches," he points out.
"I wasn't thanking you for the stitches." I reach up, my fingers brushing against the dirty collar of his henley. "I was thanking you for coming back."
Callum’s eyes darken. He steps closer, the space between us vanishing completely. He doesn't kiss me. He rests his forehead against mine, exactly like he did in the motel room, letting out a long, shuddering breath.
"I will always come back," he whispers, his voice a rough, broken promise against my skin.
I close my eyes, leaning into his solid warmth.
The war is over. The monsters are dead.
Now, we just have to figure out how to live.