Chapter 10 #3
Behind me, a commotion erupts: raised voices, heavy footsteps, the distinctive sound of leather creaking.
I turn to see the waiting area filling with Devil Souls members.
Butcher leads the group, his massive frame somehow even more imposing in the confines of the hospital corridor.
Behind him comes Shaylin, her face a mask of terror, and Grey, still bleeding from his own wounds but seemingly oblivious to them.
“Where is he?” Butcher demands, his voice carrying down the hallway with enough force to make a passing nurse flinch. “Where’s my son?”
“They’ve taken him into surgery,” I answer, moving toward them on legs that feel unsteady beneath me. “Dr. Patel is the best trauma surgeon in the hospital. She’s going to do everything she can.”
Shaylin steps forward, her hands reaching for mine despite the dried blood still caking my skin. “Tell me the truth,” she says, her voice surprisingly steady given the fear in her eyes. “Will my boy live?”
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implications. These people have seen enough of life’s harsh realities to recognize platitudes for what they are. They deserve the truth, however brutal.
“I don’t know,” I admit, the words tasting like ash on my tongue.
“The bullet damaged his liver and possibly nicked the hepatic artery. He’s lost a significant amount of blood, and his heart stopped in the ambulance.
” I swallow hard, forcing myself to continue.
“We got it started again, but he’s not out of danger. Not by a long shot.”
Shaylin’s grip on my hands tightens, her nails digging into my skin. The small pain is grounding, a counterpoint to the larger agony threatening to overwhelm me.
“But he’s fighting,” I add, needing to offer something beyond cold medical facts. “He’s strong, and he’s fighting hard.”
Butcher nods once, a sharp jerk of his head that seems to contain multitudes. “Of course he is,” he says, voice rough with emotion he’s clearly struggling to contain. “He’s my son.”
The simple declaration carries such pride, such fierce belief, that I find myself nodding in agreement. Because Zach is fighting, I felt it in the way his fingers twitched in mine, in the stubborn persistence of his heart to resume beating when science and statistics said it shouldn’t.
“How long will the surgery take?” Grey asks, practical concerns asserting themselves through the emotional storm.
“Hours,” I answer honestly. “Possibly many hours, depending on what they find when they get in there.”
Tiana appears at my elbow, a cup of steaming coffee in her hands. “You should sit down,” she says gently, pressing the cup into my grasp. “You look like you’re about to collapse.”
Only then do I realize she’s right. My legs are trembling, adrenaline fading to leave exhaustion in its wake.
I allow her to guide me to a nearby chair, sinking into it with a gratitude that surprises me.
The coffee is hospital-grade terrible, but the warmth seeping through the paper cup into my palms is oddly comforting.
“You should get cleaned up,” Tiana continues, gesturing to my blood-covered hands and clothes. “I brought a change of clothes for you from the clubhouse.”
I look down at myself, really seeing the state I’m in for the first time. My clothes are saturated with Zach’s blood, the fabric stiff and dark where it’s begun to dry. My hands are worse, crimson staining every crease, caked under my fingernails, embedded in my skin like an accusation.
“I can’t leave,” I say, the thought of being away from this waiting room, even for the few minutes it would take to change, filling me with irrational panic. “What if there’s news?”
“We’ll be right here,” Butcher says, his tone gentle despite his imposing presence. “Nothing will happen without you knowing immediately.”
I hesitate, torn between the practical need to clean up and the visceral fear of being away when news comes, good or bad.
“Go,” Shaylin urges, her hand squeezing my shoulder. “My son wouldn’t want you sitting here covered in his blood for hours.”
The truth of her words penetrates my exhaustion-fogged brain. She’s right, Zach would hate seeing me like this, would insist I take care of myself. And practically speaking, I can’t help him if I collapse from exhaustion.
“All right,” I concede, rising unsteadily to my feet. “But I’ll be quick.”
Tiana nods, handing me a small duffel bag. “Bathroom’s down the hall. I’ll come with you.”
As we walk, I notice the corridor has filled with more club members, some I recognize, others I don’t. They line the walls, a silent honor guard of leather and denim, their faces grim with shared concern. A few nod as I pass, respect in their eyes that I’m not sure I’ve earned.
“They’re here for him,” Tiana explains quietly, seeing my confusion. “But also for you.”
“For me?” I repeat, the words not quite computing through my exhaustion.
She stops, turning to face me directly. “Xavier, you’re family now. You understand that, right? What Zach did, claiming you publicly, bringing you into the fold, that means something to us. It means everything.”
The weight of her words settles over me, a responsibility and a comfort all at once. Family. The concept feels both foreign and intensely familiar, like coming home to a place I’ve never been but somehow recognize.
“I love him,” I admit, the confession slipping out before I can stop it. “I didn’t even realize how much until I saw him bleeding out in front of me.”
Tiana’s eyes soften, her hand finding mine in a brief squeeze. “He knows,” she assures me. “Trust me, he knows.”
In the bathroom, I stare at my reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing the man who looks back at me.
Blood streaks my face where I must have wiped sweat away with crimson hands.
My eyes are wild, haunted by what they’ve witnessed.
I look like I’ve been through a war, which, in many ways, I have.
I strip mechanically, stuffing the ruined clothes into the biohazard bin.
The water runs red as I scrub my hands, watching Zach’s blood swirl down the drain.
It feels wrong somehow, like I’m washing away something precious, something that connected us.
But I force myself to continue, to be thorough, to prepare myself for whatever comes next.
The clean clothes Tiana brought, jeans and a simple black t-shirt, feel like armor as I pull them on. I splash water on my face one last time, trying to wash away the haunted look in my eyes.
When I emerge, Tiana is waiting patiently, her own face showing the strain of the day’s events. “Ready?” she asks simply.
I nod, squaring my shoulders. “Ready.”
As we walk back toward the waiting area, I steel myself for the hours ahead. For the waiting, the uncertainty, the fear that threatens to consume me. But beneath that fear runs a current of something stronger. Determination, perhaps. Or faith.
Because Zach is fighting for his life in that operating room. And I intend to be here when he wins that fight, ready to begin whatever comes next. Together.
I pace the surgical waiting room, my body moving on autopilot while my mind races through every possible outcome.
Four hours have passed since they wheeled Zach through those double doors.
Four hours of imagining his chest cracked open, and surgeons’ hands inside him working desperately to repair what bullets have torn apart.
The clock on the wall ticks relentlessly, each second stretching into eternity. I’ve counted the ceiling tiles memorized the faded pattern on the industrial carpet, and drunk enough terrible coffee to make my hands tremble, though I can’t tell if that’s caffeine or fear anymore.
“Sit down, son.” Butcher’s voice breaks through my spiraling thoughts. “You’re wearing a path in the floor.”
I look up to find Zach’s father watching me with exhausted eyes that somehow still manage to convey both authority and concern. Blood has dried in the creases of his knuckles. His son’s or someone else’s, I don’t know.
“I can’t,” I admit, rubbing my face with hands that still feel like they should be covered in Zach’s blood despite the thorough scrubbing I gave them. “If I sit, I’ll start thinking, and if I start thinking…” I trail off, unable to voice the possibilities that haunt me.
Butcher nods, understanding without needing me to finish. “First time I waited while Shaylin was in surgery, I punched a hole in the hospital wall.” His mouth quirks in what might have been a smile under different circumstances. “Broke three knuckles. Didn’t feel a thing until she was in recovery.”
I glance at the wall, half expecting to see the evidence of that long-ago vigil.
Instead, I notice Shaylin herself, curled in a chair in the corner, Tiana’s arm around her shoulders.
Zach’s mother hasn’t spoken in hours, her eyes fixed on those surgical doors as if she’s willing them to open through sheer maternal determination.
Grey approaches, his own wounds now properly bandaged, though he refused to be admitted despite what looks like a significant head injury. “Any word?” he asks, voice rough from smoke and shouting.
I shake my head. “Nothing yet.”
“No news is good news,” he says, the platitude falling flat in the tension-thick air.
My pager buzzes at my hip, the temporary one Dr. Patel assigned me so they could update me without leaving surgery. My heart leaps into my throat as I check the message.
Patient stable. Hepatic artery repaired. Working on liver now. Still critical.
“They’ve repaired the arterial damage,” I announce, my doctor’s voice taking over, clinical and detached as if discussing any other patient. “They’re working on his liver now. He’s…” I swallow hard, the professional facade cracking. “He’s still critical, but he’s hanging in there.”