Chapter 35
The Trickster
I carry Eve through the warehouse doors, her body a weight I refuse to surrender. Blood seeps through the tattered fabric on her body, warm against my skin, binding us together in ways I never wanted.
Her breath comes in shallow gasps against my neck, and each step I take causes her to whimper. It’s a fucking dagger to my heart.
“Stay with me,” I murmur against Eve’s hair, not sure if I’m ordering or begging. Her eyelids flutter, gray irises fighting to focus on my face.
I’m ten steps from my car when tires screech against asphalt. Nick’s car slides to a halt. Marco jumps out of the front passenger side while my brother erupts from the driver’s side, face twisted with fury.
He opens his mouth but whatever he was going to say dies on his tongue when his gaze catches on Eve in my arms.
“What the fuck happened?” he asks, rushing to my side.
I shake my head. “We need a doctor for Eve.”
Nick’s eyes darken, hardening with purpose. He doesn’t waste time asking questions I won’t answer. Instead, he pulls open the rear door of his car, helping me maneuver Eve inside without jostling her injuries.
“Shelby’s still inside,” I tell him as I slide onto the back seat, cradling Eve across my lap. “Marco can get her, but she needs to stay alive until Eve’s ready to deal with her.”
Nick nods once, already barking orders at his head of security, something about cleanup and other things that turn into white noise. My focus narrows to Eve, to the rise and fall of her chest, to the flutter of her pulse beneath my fingertips.
“Nick,” I growl, not liking how long this is taking.
“Coming.”
He gets into the car and, wasting no time speeding away, drives with the precise aggression that’s gotten us out of trouble our entire lives. Eve screams in pain as Nick swerves to avoid the car that’s stopped in front of us.
“Easy,” I whisper, angling her so the pressure on her shoulder eases. “I’ve got you.”
Her eyes open, glassy with pain but clear enough to find mine. “Jack,” she rasps, “she… I…”
“Don’t talk,” I cut her off, pressing my lips to her forehead. The copper tang of blood clings to her skin, to mine, to everything. “Save your strength.”
The city blurs past the windows, Nick weaving through traffic with single-minded determination. I keep my hand pressed against Eve’s shoulder, feeling the steady pulse of blood against my palm.
My own injuries are nothing but background noise. The only pain that registers is hers, each wince and muffled groan like a knife between my ribs.
“Almost there,” Nick announces, eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.
The gates of Nick’s estate swing open before we reach them, someone having called ahead. We tear up the long driveway, gravel spitting beneath the tires. The mansion looms ahead, and when we get closer, I see Carolina standing on the front steps.
Nick barely puts the car in park before he’s out, yanking open my door. “Carmichael’s ready,” he says, helping me slide out with Eve still in my arms. “Everything’s set up.”
I nod, unable to spare a breath for gratitude. Eve has gone terrifyingly still in my arms, her head lolling agains t my chest. Only the faint warmth of her breath against my neck tells me she’s still fighting.
Carolina gasps when she sees us, one hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my God,” she whispers, but there’s no hysteria in her voice—just controlled horror, the kind that comes from understanding exactly what stands before her. “This way.”
She leads us through the foyer, past the grand staircase, down the west wing corridor. My boots leave bloody prints on the marble, a trail of violence through the pristine halls of my brother’s home.
The hospital wing occupies the entire first floor of the west wing—a necessity in our line of work. Dr. Carmichael stands ready in the central treatment room, flanked by two nurses in crisp scrubs.
Her face remains impassive as we enter, only the slight widening of her eyes betraying her shock at Eve’s condition. “On the table,” she instructs, already pulling on gloves.
I hesitate, my arms tightening around Eve. The thought of letting her go, even to save her, coils like a viper in my chest.
“Jack,” Nick says, voice quiet but firm. “Let them work.”
Slowly, I turn Eve and lower her onto the examination table. She’s on her stomach to spare the lashes on her back, but that doesn’t stop her blood from immediately staining the white sheets. Her fingers clutch weakly at my shirt as I pull away.
“I’m not leaving,” I tell Carmichael, a statement, not a question.
The doctor doesn’t argue, just nods at one of the nurses. “Set up a second station. Mr. Knight needs treatment as well.”
“Focus on her,” I growl.
“We’ll do both,” Carmichael replies, already cutting away what remains of Eve’s dress. “Sit down before you fall down.”
I move to the head of Eve’s table as a nurse drags a stool beside me. From here, I can watch Carmichael work while keeping my hand on Eve’s uninjured shoulder, a tether between us that I refuse to break.
The nurse cleans my face with antiseptic wipes, the sting barely registering.
My gaze remains fixed on Eve as Carmichael methodically catalogs her injuries.
The bullet wound through her shoulder, the deep lacerations across her back from the whip, the knife cut on her cheek, and the rope burns circling her wrists.
Each wou nd leaves a hollow ache in my chest, as if it had been carved into my own flesh. I should have been faster. Should have known. Should have protected her.
“The bullet went clean through,” Carmichael reports, voice clinically detached. “No major vessels hit. She’s lost blood, but not enough to be critical.”
Relief washes through me, a momentary reprieve from the guilt consuming me. Eve’s eyelids flutter at the sound of my exhale, her gaze finding mine through the haze of pain.
“Still here,” she whispers, the ghost of a smile curving her lips.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise, ignoring the nurse as she cleans the whip marks across my back. The pain is distant, belonging to someone else entirely.
Carolina steps up behind me, one hand on my shoulder, careful to avoid my injuries. “She’ll be okay,” she murmurs, as much for herself as for me. “She’s strong.”
Nick paces at the periphery of the room, phone to his ear, handling the aftermath of what we’ve left behind. His voice is a low rumble of controlled authority—cleanup crews dispatched, Shelby secured, all traces of our presence at the warehouse erased.
The routine of it would be comforting if I could feel anything beyond the bruised tenderness of watching Eve being stitched back together. Every needle through her skin, every bandage placed, every careful cleaning of blood feels like it’s happening to me.
Carmichael works with methodical precision, her hands steady as they close every wound. “You’ll both need rest,” she says as she finishes the last stitch on Eve’s shoulder. “No exertion. No stress.”
Her gaze flicks between Nick and me, clinical assessment tinged with knowing resignation, and a heavy dose of scepticism.
“They’ll follow every order,” Nick answers before I can. “They’re staying here until they’re healed.”
I don’t argue. Here, under Nick’s roof, with guards and security systems and family watching over us, she’ll be safe.
“I’m putting her on antibiotics and pain management,” Carmichael continues, inserting an IV line into Eve’s arm. “S he’ll need the stitches out in about ten days. The shoulder will take longer to heal completely.”
Eve’s eyes are closed now, her breathing steadier, the pain medication taking effect. Her hand rests in mine, fingers loosely curled around my palm. Even unconscious, she refuses to let go.
“Thank you,” I say to Carmichael, the words inadequate for what she’s done.
She nods once, understanding what I don’t say. Then she turns to the nurse tending my injuries. “Finish cleaning him so we can finish up.”
I submit to their ministrations without complaint, my eyes never leaving Eve’s face. The worst is over now. She’s alive. She’s here. She’s still mine. Everything else—Shelby, the warehouse, the blood—can wait.
One week passes. I measure time by the healing of her wounds—the stitches in her shoulder tightening, the cut on her cheek scabbing over, the welts on her back fading from angry red to dusky pink.
Every morning, I trace these markers with my fingertips, a ritual of possession and care. Eve watches me through half-lidded eyes, still drowsy with sleep, her lips curved in a smile that’s equal parts surrender and defiance.
“You’re hovering again,” she murmurs as I adjust her pillow for the third time this morning. We’re still in the guest suite in Nick and Carolina’s home. It’s become our sanctuary.
“I’m taking care of you,” I correct, voice low as I smooth the sheet across her lap.
My own wounds have mostly healed, but I still stay here with her, refusing to let her out of my sight.
Eve sighs, pushing herself upright against the headboard. “I can sit up on my own, you know.”
“You shouldn’t strain yourself.”
“It’s been a week, Jack.” Her fingers trace the bandage on her shoulder, testing the edges where medical tape meets skin. “I’m not made of glass.”
I take her hand, moving it awa y from the wound. “Obey the doctor’s orders,” I say, pressing a kiss to her palm. “Please. For me.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t pull away. This is our rhythm now—her pushing, testing boundaries, me drawing her back, keeping her still.
I settle beside her on the bed, reaching for the book on the nightstand. It’s something Carolina brought—a thriller taking place in a mental institution in the forties. Even though Eve loves to point out all the implausibilities, she lets me read it to her.
“Chapter fifteen,” I begin, finding our place from yesterday.