CHAPTER 23
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and fear.
Quinn sat in the surgical waiting room, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles had gone white and bloodless.
She’d been sitting here for three hours.
Three hours of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, of bad coffee growing cold in a Styrofoam cup beside her, of nurses coming and going with carefully neutral expressions that told her nothing.
Three hours of not knowing if Dax was going to live or die.
She was still wearing her blood-stained pajamas—Dax’s blood, dried now to a rust-brown that cracked when she moved.
Someone had draped a blanket over her shoulders at some point, but she couldn’t remember who or when.
The paramedics maybe. Or one of the officers who’d taken her statement in the ambulance bay while the doctors rushed Dax inside.
The statement had been a blur. Quinn had answered questions on autopilot while her mind stayed in that operating room, imagining surgeons cut into Dax’s shoulder, watching them work to save his life.
She could still feel his hand in hers from the ambulance ride. Could still hear his voice, weak but determined. Love you. I’m sorry. For everything.
Quinn’s eyes burned but she had no tears left. She’d cried them all out in the first hour, sitting alone in this sterile room with its terrible magazines and its wall-mounted TV playing the news on mute.
The news. Quinn had looked up once and seen her own face on the screen—footage from outside the warehouse, Wheeler being loaded into a police car, the breaking news banner screaming about the arrest of Blackridge’s most prominent businessman.
She’d looked away. Couldn’t process it. Not yet. Not when Dax was—
“Ms. Barrett?”
Quinn’s head snapped up. A surgeon stood in the doorway, still wearing scrubs, a surgical cap, and the kind of expression that Quinn couldn’t read. Too neutral. Too professional.
Her heart stopped.
“Is he—” She couldn’t finish. Couldn’t say the word dead because saying it might make it real.
“Detective Mercer is out of surgery.” The surgeon moved closer, and Quinn could see the exhaustion in his face, the slight tremor in his hands that spoke of hours of delicate work.
“The bullet shattered his clavicle and did significant damage to the surrounding tissue and nerves. We’ve repaired what we could, but there will be a long recovery. ”
“But he’s alive.” Quinn’s voice cracked on the words.
“He’s alive. Critical but stable. He lost a significant amount of blood.
We gave him four units during surgery. The next twenty-four hours will be crucial, but if he makes it through tonight without complications...
” The surgeon’s expression softened slightly.
“He’s a fighter, Ms. Barrett. That determination is probably what kept him alive long enough to get here. ”
Quinn felt something unclench in her chest—not relief, not yet, but the possibility of relief. The space for it.
“Can I see him?”
“He’s in recovery now. Once he’s moved to ICU, you can sit with him. Maybe an hour.” The surgeon paused. “He was asking for you. Even under anesthesia. Your name was the first thing he said when he started coming around.”
Quinn’s throat closed up. She managed a nod, not trusting her voice.
The surgeon left and Quinn sank back into the plastic chair, her whole body trembling now that the worst of the fear had passed.
Dax was alive.
Alive and asking for her.
Quinn buried her face in her hands and finally let herself breathe.
The hour passed in a strange suspension of time—both endless and too fast. Quinn paced. Sat. Paced again. Checked her phone and found dozens of messages she couldn’t bring herself to read yet. Manny. Nathan. Carson. Numbers she didn’t recognize—probably reporters, already circling.
She turned the phone off.
Finally, a nurse appeared. “Ms. Barrett? You can see him now. But only for a few minutes. He needs rest.”
Quinn followed the nurse through a maze of corridors, through doors that required badge access, into the ICU—a hushed space of beeping machines and soft-soled shoes and the constant low-grade crisis of bodies hovering between life and death.
Dax’s room was at the end. The nurse held the door open.
“Ten minutes,” she said gently.
Quinn stepped inside and her breath caught.
Dax looked so small in the hospital bed. That was Quinn’s first thought, ridiculous as it was. This man who stood over six-three, who was all muscle and solid strength, looked small. Diminished. Vulnerable.
He was unconscious still, or sleeping. Quinn couldn’t tell which.
His face was pale against the white pillows, making the shadows under his eyes look like bruises.
An oxygen cannula ran under his nose. IVs fed into both arms. Monitors beeped steadily, tracking his heart rate, his blood pressure, his oxygen levels.
His left shoulder was wrapped in so much bandaging it looked like he was wearing armor. The hospital gown had been cut away to accommodate the dressing, leaving his chest bare except for the leads monitoring his heart.
Quinn moved to his bedside on legs that felt disconnected from her body. She reached for his right hand—the one not connected to IVs—and felt the warmth of his skin, the steady pulse in his wrist.
Alive. He was alive.
“Dax,” she whispered, her thumb stroking over his knuckles. “I’m here.”
His eyes fluttered. Opened slowly, struggling against the pull of anesthesia and pain medication.
“Quinn.” Her name was slurred, barely intelligible. But his fingers tightened around hers with surprising strength.
“Hey.” Quinn pulled the chair closer with her free hand and sat down without letting go. “Welcome back.”
“Did we—” He coughed, winced. “Did we get him? Wheeler?”
“We got him. He’s in custody. So are his men.” Quinn leaned closer. “It’s over, Dax. You did it.”
“We did it.” His eyes were clearer now, focusing on her face. “Are you—did he hurt you?”
“I’m fine. Not a scratch.” Quinn’s free hand touched his face, feeling the rough stubble on his jaw, the warmth of fever starting to set in. “You’re the one who got shot, you idiot.”
“Had to.” Dax’s voice was getting stronger, fighting through the drugs. “Had to get you out. Couldn’t let him—” His breath hitched. “I’m sorry, Quinn. For everything. For the cabin. For trying to control you. For—”
“Shh.” Quinn pressed her fingers gently to his lips. “We’ll talk about all of that later. When you’re not hopped up on morphine.”
“No. Need to—need to say it now.” Dax’s hand tightened on hers almost painfully. “I was so afraid. Of losing you. Like everyone else. And I let that fear turn me into—into someone who hurt you. Someone who didn’t trust you. Didn’t respect your choices.”
His eyes were bright now, too bright. Tears or fever or both.
“You left because of me. Went back to your house because I drove you away. And Wheeler took you because I couldn’t—” His voice cracked. “Because I failed you.”
“You didn’t fail me.” Quinn’s own tears were falling now, dropping onto their joined hands. “Dax, you came for me. You came alone into that building knowing you might die. You saved my life.”
“After putting it in danger—”
“Wheeler put me in danger. Not you.” Quinn leaned forward until their faces were inches apart.
“And yes, you were an overprotective ass who tried to lock me away like Rapunzel. And yes, we’re going to have to work on that.
But Dax—” She made sure he was looking at her, really seeing her.
“You also listened when I left. You let me go. You gave me the space I needed, even though it terrified you.”
“And look what happened—”
“And then you came when I needed you most.” Quinn’s voice was fierce now. “Not because you were trying to control me. But because you love me. Because we’re partners. Because that’s what we do. We save each other.”
Dax was quiet for a long moment, his dark eyes searching her face.
“I love you,” he said finally, his voice rough with emotion. “So much it scares me. So much I don’t know how to—how to love you without also losing my mind with fear.”
“Then we figure it out together.” Quinn brought his hand to her lips, kissed his knuckles. “We learn how to balance your fear with my need for freedom. We communicate instead of you making unilateral decisions. We trust each other.”
“I do trust you.”
“You trust me to be capable. But you don’t trust me to make my own choices about risk.” Quinn held his gaze. “That has to change, Dax. I need you to trust me with my own life. Even when it scares you.”
Dax closed his eyes, pain flickering across his face—not physical this time. “What if I can’t? What if every time you walk out the door, I—”
“Then we work on it. Therapy maybe. Talking it through. Whatever it takes.” Quinn’s voice softened. “But Dax, I can’t be with someone who treats me like evidence to be secured. I need a partner. An equal. Someone who loves me enough to let me be myself, even when it’s terrifying.”
“I want to be that person.” Dax opened his eyes again. “I want to be better. For you. With you.”
“Then we’ll figure it out.” Quinn smiled through her tears. “Together. No more cages. No more locked cabins. Just...us. Being honest. Being real.”
“Together,” Dax echoed. His hand squeezed hers. “I’m not letting you go again, Quinn. Not unless you tell me to. And even then, I’m going to fight for us.”
“Good.” Quinn leaned forward and kissed him—gentle, careful of his injuries, but full of promise. “Because I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, Mercer.”
“Best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Dax murmured against her lips.
They stayed like that for a moment, foreheads touching, breathing each other’s air, suspended in this small bubble of peace amid the chaos.
Then the door opened.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Barrett, but he needs to rest now,” the nurse said.
Quinn pulled back reluctantly. “I’ll come back. First thing tomorrow.”
“I’ll be here,” Dax said, attempting a smile that turned into a grimace as his shoulder twinged. “Not going anywhere.”