Chapter 43
MARCUS
The paramedics do what they do best. They’re unobtrusive, pretending they’re not acutely aware of who they’re treating. Oxygen, vitals, questions asked, and answers taken without fuss. Max stands close enough to intercept anything that shouldn’t travel beyond the tape.
I tell them Iris was poisoned, and what I administered. They give her another dose of the antidote. Then, she’s monitored closely, and so far her signs are good.
The police and firefighters already know the drill. They’ve known me long enough to understand that discretion isn’t a favor. It’s protocol. Whatever happened inside that building and in that alley stays contained for now. No statements. No names. No twin.
The press, of course, has other ideas. They’ve gathered in a loose knot behind the barricade with their cameras angled toward the site, their voices already shaping a narrative. They know the address, and they know what was planned here. Sabotage is the word of the hour.
Wrapped in a blanket, Iris is tucked against my side.
“You okay?” I check in, my lips on her hair. She smells of sweat and dust, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“I’m okay. You?” she replies.
I gather her hands in mine and say, “I’m all right.”
“You made it out,” she murmurs, as if she still needs to hear it.
“I told you I’d find another way.” I huff. “Turns out all it took was crawling backward.”
She lifts her head, and understanding as to why the space is too tight for me to turn around dawns.
“That tunnel,” I say. “There was an offshoot, the kind drainage usually has. I missed it the first time.”
She blinks at me. “We both missed it. We were too focused on the end to notice anything else.”
“Funny what happens when you stop pushing forward.”
She exhales, then pulls me into her. “Forward or backward, don’t ever ask me to leave you again.”
I kiss the crown of her head. “No,” I say. “But I’m still putting you first. Just ideally without collapsing buildings next time.”
In the crowd, Charles Pompeo, with his perfectly combed silver hair, is impossible to miss. His eyes light up like he’s just been handed a ready-made headline. He pushes forward, ignoring Max’s presence, his voice already rising.
“Come on, Dr. Lockwood,” he calls out. “You owe me this much.”
Max steps into his path. I’m already shifting, ready to back him up.
Iris feels it. “Don’t punch him, please,” she says. “He’s just doing his job.”
“Huh. If you say so,” I reply. Then something slots into place. “Hey, are you okay with a little airtime?”
She nods tentatively. “Only with you.”
“Let him in,” I tell Max.
The younger Hunt looks at me to confirm that I mean it. Then he steps aside.
Pompeo barrels through the gap with his microphone lifted, the camera crew scrambling to keep up. He’s smiling like he’s about to win something.
“I’ll give you two minutes,” I say.
He grins wider. “Dr. Lockwood, some are saying this Bronx hospital project is your curse—”
I don’t answer.
I just tilt Iris’s chin up and kiss her with the kind of kiss that shuts the rest of the world out because the world was never invited in to begin with. I feel her respond immediately, her hand fisting in my jacket, the press noise fading into nothing but background static.
Soon, the two minutes fly by.
When I finally pull back, Pompeo exhales, clearly restraining himself. “All right,” he says, forced humor creeping in. “We’re not shooting The Titanic here. Now, a real question—”
“This interview is over,” I say.
Max is already there, guiding Pompeo away before he can protest, his microphone dipping uselessly as the cameras scramble for something else to feed on.
“That was it?” she murmurs.
“That was it,” I confirm.
She smiles, small, tired, and real.
Behind us, the building stands silent, the past buried, and the future delayed but not erased. Tonight, I’ve lost something I’ll never get back, and I can feel the weight settling, heavy and inescapable.
But Iris is breathing, and she’s warm. She’s here.
And Charles Pompeo got exactly the interview he deserved.
I count that as a balance.
Liam comes back a few minutes later with Blanket trotting at his side.
Blanket’s gait is steady, his tail moving in a satisfied arc.
There’s a bandage on one paw and the faint scent of antiseptic clinging to his fur.
The paramedic who checked him over peels away, already working on the next problem.
I crouch, my joints protesting. “Where’s your cushion?”
Blanket looks at me like the question lacks imagination.
Liam exhales a laugh. “Yeah, when you think he’s finally let it go—” He gestures toward his car. “It’s in the back seat.”
I rub a hand over Blanket’s head, feeling the solid weight of him and the steadiness that never wavered. “You’re an old soul,” I tell him. “Whatever you were before this life, you’ve got timing figured out.”
He presses against my leg uncomplicatedly while Iris kneels and wraps her arms around him. “You’re my guardian angel, Blanky.”
Blanket accepts the claim without debate.
Liam watches the three of us for a second, then shakes his head. “That dog deserves a steak the size of Manhattan.”
I straighten and stand with Iris close at my side and Blanket planted at our feet as if he’s decided on a permanent position.
For the first time all night, nothing is being taken from us.
And that’s enough to end on.