Chapter 3 #7
“Clear!” I call to Greyson and my father, keeping my weapon trained on the wounded Reaper.
Xavier emerges from cover, immediately returning to his patient. He doesn’t spare a glance at the dead men, focusing entirely on the woman whose life he’s fighting to save.
“We need to get her upstairs,” he insists, checking her pulse. His fingers leave bloody prints on her wrist. “Right now. She’s still bleeding internally.”
Footsteps approach from the main hallway. I raise my weapon, then lower it as Greyson appears. A thin cut marks his cheekbone, fresh blood glistening under the fluorescent lights.
“Hospital’s secure,” he reports, breathing slightly elevated from exertion. “Police are clearing the rest of the building, but it looks like we got all of them. At least the ones inside.”
Relief washes through me, but only briefly. Xavier’s patient is still critical, and he’s still in danger until every Reaper is accounted for. I know how these things work. There will be retaliation. There always is.
“We need to evacuate this patient to surgery,” Xavier says, his doctor’s authority evident even when addressing Greyson. “She’s stabilized temporarily, but the bullet damaged her pulmonary artery. She needs an OR immediately.”
Greyson nods, already on his phone. “South stairwell’s clear. I’ll have brothers escort you up.”
As Xavier and the other nurse prepare to move the patient, I step closer to him, lowering my voice so only he can hear.
“You okay?” I ask, eyes scanning him for injuries I might have missed. My heart still hammers against my ribs, adrenaline making my senses hyperacute. I need to know he’s unharmed.
His hands are stained crimson, his scrubs soaked with blood, but none of it appears to be his own. His eyes meet mine, fatigue and adrenaline creating an odd clarity in their depths. A small cut on his forehead has left a trail of blood down his temple, but it’s superficial.
“I’m fine,” he says, though the slight tremor in his voice belies the claim. “Just need to get her to surgery.”
I help them lift the stretcher, positioning myself at Xavier’s side as we move toward the stairwell. Four brothers wait to escort us, weapons ready, forming a protective perimeter. The wounded nurse is pale but stable, the chest tube doing its job for now.
As we climb the stairs, Xavier focuses entirely on monitoring his patient’s vital signs, whispering reassurances to her even though she’s barely conscious.
I can’t tear my eyes from him for long. The man who slept in my arms last night now walks through a battlefield of his own, saving lives while I take them.
Two sides of the same coin; protection manifested in different ways.
When we reach the surgical floor, a team waits to take the patient. Xavier transfers her care efficiently, relaying vital information in concise medical terminology.
“GSW to the right chest, tension pneumothorax relieved with needle thoracostomy and chest tube placement. Hypotensive despite two liters of fluid. Type and cross for six units. Probable injury to the pulmonary artery based on bleeding pattern.”
The surgical team nods, already moving the patient through the double doors. Xavier steps back, watching them go, his shoulders finally slumping as the immediate crisis passes. He leans against the wall, bloody hands hanging at his sides, exhaustion evident in every line of his body.
“How many?” he asks quietly.
“How many what?” I move closer, positioning myself between him and the hallway, still protective despite the all clear.
“How many dead?” His eyes meet mine, searching for the truth.
I don’t look away. Don’t sugarcoat it. “Three that I know of. Maybe more.”
He nods slowly, processing this. A smear of blood has dried across his cheekbone, making him look almost war painted. “They came looking for trouble,” he says after a moment. “They fired into a hospital, Zach. Into rooms with patients who couldn’t even move.”
“I know,” I say, stepping closer to him, not touching, yet we’re both too bloody for that. The urge to pull him against me, to verify with my own hands that he’s truly unharmed, is nearly overwhelming.
“I should feel something about their deaths,” Xavier continues, voice low enough that only I can hear. “Regret, maybe. But all I feel is…” He trails off, struggling for words.
“Relief?” I suggest, watching his face carefully.
“Yes.” His eyes meet mine again, searching for judgment he won’t find. “Is that wrong?”
I shake my head. “It’s human. They threatened what you care about. Threatened your patients, your colleagues.” I pause, then add quietly, “Threatened you.”
Something shifts in his expression, recognition of the fierce protectiveness behind my words. He understands now, I think, what I’m capable of when what I care about is endangered. When he is endangered.
“I need to check on my other patients,” he says, straightening. “Make sure everyone’s accounted for.”
I nod, stepping back to give him space. “I’ll be here. We’ll make sure the building’s secure before we leave.”
He starts to walk away, then pauses, turning back to me. Despite the blood, despite the chaos, despite everything that’s happened today, there’s something in his eyes I haven’t seen before. A certainty, a decision made.
“Tonight,” he says, echoing our promise from this morning. “We still need to talk.”
“Tonight,” I agree, the word both a promise and a prayer.
As he walks away to tend to his patients, I watch him go, the weight of my weapon still heavy in my hand.
Blood dries tacky between my fingers, not mine, not Xavier’s, but that of the men who threatened him.
I should feel something about that, perhaps, but all I feel is a cold certainty: I would do it again, without hesitation, to keep him safe.
My worlds have collided today in ways that cannot be undone. The man who slept in my arms now walks away covered in blood that I helped spill. The doctor who saves lives has witnessed me take them.
And somehow, impossibly, he still looks at me the same way, as if I’m someone worth coming back to.