Chapter 10 #4
Shaylin makes a sound, half sob, half prayer, her fingers twisting the silver rings she wears until her knuckles turn white. Butcher moves to her side, his massive frame somehow gentle as he kneels beside her chair.
“Our boy’s tough,” he reminds her, taking her hands in his. “Gets that from you.”
She nods, tears tracking silently down her face. “And his stubborn streak is all yours.”
The exchange feels intensely private, a glimpse into decades of partnership forged through hardship and love. I look away, giving them what little privacy the crowded waiting room allows.
My gaze falls on the surgical doors again, willing them to open with good news.
Behind them, Zach lies cut open, his life in the hands of surgeons who, until yesterday, were my colleagues.
The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m now on this side of the doors, helpless and waiting, when I’ve spent years being the one who delivers news, good or bad, to anxious families.
A hand settles on my shoulder, startling me from my thoughts. Livie stands beside me, offering a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper.
“You need to eat,” she says, pressing it into my hands. “Doctor or not, you’ll pass out if you keep this up.”
I want to refuse, the thought of food makes my stomach turn, but the practicality of her concern penetrates my fog. Zach will need me strong when he wakes up. When, not if. I cling to that certainty with desperate conviction.
“Thanks,” I manage, unwrapping the sandwich and forcing myself to take a bite. It tastes like nothing, texture without flavor, but I chew mechanically, knowing my body needs the fuel.
“He talked about you, you know,” Livie says quietly, leaning against the wall beside me. “Even before you two got together. For years. I was in school and I would hear him talking about you all the time. Mind you, I’m younger than the two of you, but I heard.”
I pause mid-chew, looking at her with surprise. “He did?”
She nods, a small smile softening her worried expression. “He’d come back from following you home, all broody and quiet. Tiana would tease him about his ‘doctor stalking,’ and he’d get this look…” She gestures vaguely. “Like he was seeing something the rest of us couldn’t.”
“I had no idea,” I admit, the sandwich forgotten in my hand. “All that time, I thought he barely knew I existed.”
Livie’s laugh is gentle, lacking its usual brashness. “Xavier, that man has been yours since high school. The rest of us were just waiting for you both to figure it out.”
Her words settle in my chest, a warm weight against the cold fear that’s been my constant companion. I think of Zach’s face when he claimed me publicly, the fierce certainty in his eyes when he called me his partner. The memory aches with a sweetness that’s almost unbearable now.
“I can’t lose him,” I whisper, the admission scraping my throat raw. “Not now. Not when we’ve just found each other.”
“You won’t,” Livie says with such conviction that I almost believe her. “Slaughter doesn’t break promises, and he promised you tonight.” She squeezes my arm once before moving back to join the others, leaving me with my thoughts and half-eaten sandwich.
The doors swing open, and everyone freezes. A nurse, not Dr. Patel, just a surgical nurse I vaguely recognize, steps through, scanning the room until she spots me.
“Dr. Blane?” she calls, and suddenly I can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t do anything but stare as she approaches. Her expression gives nothing away, the neutral face all medical professionals perfect for delivering news of any kind.
I force myself forward on legs that feel disconnected from my body. Around me, the room has gone silent, every eye watching this exchange, every breath held.
“Yes?” My voice sounds strange to my own ears, distant and thin.
“Dr. Patel asked me to update you personally,” she says, her voice pitched low enough so that only I can hear what I already know.
I nod, processing the information through my medical knowledge rather than my emotions. “His cardiac status?”
“Stable for now. They had to transfuse eight units, but his pressure is holding.” She hesitates, then adds, “Dr. Patel wanted you to know that he’s fighting hard. Harder than she expected, given the extent of his injuries.”
A sound escapes me, not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. “Of course he is,” I manage. “Stubborn bastard.”
The nurse’s professional mask slips just slightly, a flash of sympathy in her eyes. “She’ll send another update when they begin closing. It’s going to be a while yet.”
I thank her, turning back to the waiting room where everyone watches me with desperate hope. “Surgery’s going well,” I report, my voice steadier than I feel. “They’ve repaired the major bleeding and are working on his liver now. He’s stable.”
The collective exhale is audible, tension releasing from the room like air from a punctured balloon. Not gone completely—we all know “stable” in surgical terms is a relative state—but eased enough that people shift in their seats, quiet conversations resuming.
I sink into a chair, suddenly exhausted as if the nurse’s cautiously positive update has drained what little adrenaline was keeping me upright. The sandwich sits forgotten in my hand until Tiana gently takes it, replacing it with a fresh cup of coffee.
“You should rest,” she suggests, sitting beside me. “We’ll wake you if there’s any news.”
I shake my head, though my eyelids feel weighed down. “I need to be awake. If something happens…”
“Nothing’s going to happen that won’t wait for us to shake you awake,” she argues gently. “And Zach will kick all our asses if he wakes up to find you’ve made yourself sick with worry.”
The image, Zach awake, Zach angry on my behalf, Zach alive, is so vivid that it steals my breath. I want it so badly I can almost taste it, can almost feel his hands on me, hear his voice rough with concern.
“Just a few minutes,” I concede, letting my head rest against the wall behind me. “Wake me if there’s any change. Any change at all.”
Tiana nods, her hand patting my knee in silent promise. I close my eyes, not expecting sleep to come, just giving my burning eyes a moment’s rest.
But exhaustion has its own agenda. Between one breath and the next, I slip into a fitful doze, my dreams filled with blood-slick hands and Zach’s voice calling my name from somewhere I can’t reach.
I jolt awake to the sound of the surgical doors swinging open again.
Disoriented, I check my watch. Almost three hours have passed, though it feels like seconds.
Dr. Patel stands in the doorway, still in scrubs, a cap covering her hair.
Her face shows the strain of hours of intense concentration, but when our eyes meet, I see something that makes my heart stutter in my chest.
Hope.
I’m on my feet before I’m fully conscious of moving, the waiting room coming alive around me as everyone registers her presence. Butcher and Shaylin appear at my side, Shaylin’s hand finding mine in a grip that would be painful if I could feel anything beyond the roaring in my ears.
Dr. Patel approaches, pulling her cap off to reveal hair damp with sweat. She looks exhausted but satisfied, the expression of a surgeon who has fought a difficult battle and won.
“He made it through surgery,” she says, addressing all of us but keeping her eyes on me. “It was touch and go for a while, his liver was more damaged than we initially thought, and we had to remove about twenty percent of it. But the repair was successful, and the bleeding is controlled.”
The clinical details wash over me, my doctor’s brain cataloging them even as relief makes my knees weak. Shaylin’s grip on my hand tightens, and I hear Butcher’s deep exhale beside me.
“He’s being moved to ICU now,” Dr. Patel continues. “He’s still critical, and the next twenty-four hours will be crucial. But…” She allows herself a small smile. “He’s fighting hard. Harder than I’ve seen most patients fight.”
“When can we see him?” Shaylin asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Once he’s settled in the ICU, you can see him briefly, two at a time, just for a few minutes.
” Dr. Patel’s eyes find mine again. “He’s heavily sedated and on a ventilator, which is standard protocol for this type of injury.
We’ll begin weaning him from sedation tomorrow if his condition remains stable. ”
I nod, already preparing myself mentally for what Zach will look like: the tubes, the wires, the machines breathing for him. “Thank you,” I manage, the words entirely inadequate for what she’s given us. “For everything.”
She squeezes my arm briefly. “He’s got a long recovery ahead, but if the next twenty-four hours go well, his prognosis is good.” She glances at her watch. “I need to check on him in recovery, but a nurse will come get you when he’s settled in the ICU.”
As she walks away, the waiting room erupts in quiet celebration, relief manifesting as tears, hugs, and murmured thanks to whatever deities these bikers believe in. Grey pulls out his phone, already calling to update those who couldn’t be here.
But I stand motionless, Dr. Patel’s words echoing in my mind. He made it through surgery. He’s fighting hard. His prognosis is good.
Zach is alive.
The thought hits me, and suddenly I’m shaking, fine tremors running through my body as the adrenaline and fear that have sustained me for hours crash into overwhelming relief.
A sound escapes me, half laugh, half sob, and then strong arms are around me, holding me upright as my legs threaten to give way.
“Easy, son,” Butcher’s voice rumbles against my ear. “He made it. Our boy made it.”
I nod against his shoulder, unable to speak through the emotion clogging my throat. His hand pats my back awkwardly but with genuine affection, and I realize this is the first time Zach’s father has embraced me, this acceptance into their family solidified in crisis.