Chapter 18
Eighteen
Ava
The heavy thrum of the rotors vibrates through the soles of my boots, a mechanical roar that tries to drown out the chaos in the cabin. The sharp, acidic tang of aviation fuel clashes with the scent of woodsmoke still clinging to my hair.
Beside me, Axel reaches for Silas’s arm. My instincts snap into place before I can even think.
"Don't touch that," I command. My voice is sharper than I intended, cutting through the engine noise. "The shoulder's been reduced, but the joint is unstable. Support it from underneath, not the side."
Axel pauses, his brow furrowing under his helmet. "Ma'am—"
"I have trauma training, and he's now my patient," I counter. I don't give him an inch. I can't. "Underneath."
He yields, adjusting his grip. I watch his hands with a hawk’s intensity. Silas is pale, his muscles leaden, and though I want to reach out and smooth the hair from his forehead, I have to stay in 'Doctor' mode. If I slip into 'Ava,' I might fall apart, and he can’t afford for me to fall apart yet.
Stray flakes of snow drift through the open bay, melting against Silas’s skin.
Axel is fast. He lands the IV line on the first try. I find myself grading him, a silent, frantic peer review. He’s professional, his voice carrying that flat, medic monotone that usually reassures me. Today, it just makes my chest tighter.
"BP's low," Axel says.
"He's been bleeding for at least forty minutes," I reply, my voice steady despite the adrenaline vibrating in my marrow. "Possibly longer. The arm wound is the priority, but check his right ribs as well. He took a knee to that flank."
Axel nods, accepting the directive without question. Good. He recognizes my seniority even if I’m covered in soot and blood.
The helicopter surges, climbing for altitude. My stomach drops, and through the salt-streaked window, the fire vanishes. Swallowed by the white.
Caleb leans into Silas’s line of sight, his jaw tight. "You look terrible," he says.
"You should see the other guy," Silas croaks.
Gallows humor. It’s a horrific, beautiful sound. He’s still there. He’s still quipping. I see the softening in Caleb’s eyes—the relief he’s too stoic to voice and I feel a sudden, desperate need for contact.
I reach out, my hand finding Silas’s in the cramped space. I don't look at him. I keep my eyes fixed on Axel’s hands, on the monitors, on the clinical reality of the situation. I keep my face a mask of professional calm.
But my hand is shaking. I can’t stop it.
Silas turns his palm over, threading his fingers through mine and gripping back. The effort clearly costs him, but he doesn't let go. He is my anchor in this vibrating metal box.
"ETA?" I ask, looking at Caleb.
"Twenty-two minutes," he says, checking his watch.
I nod, mentally mapping out those twenty-two minutes. I can hold it together for that long. I have to.
By the time we arrive, Silas is no longer capable of conversation, and his grip has gone limp in my hand. I’m praying nonstop as we touch down.
The landing pad is a blinding theater of artificial light. The trauma team is already there, a blur of scrubs and urgency.
The transition is disorienting. Usually, I come in after the chaos—once trauma’s done the first pass.
I assess. I interpret. I decide what damage matters, and what might still be saved.
But as they wheel Silas away, I see the faces of colleagues gracing me with looks of deep concern.
I take a step to follow, but Axel’s hand is on my arm.
"You should get your ankle looked at," he says firmly.
"I know these people," I argue, but my voice sounds thin, stripped of its authority. "I can help—"
"Dr. Morrison. You’re limping. I’m not sure if you would be helping."
I look down at my ankle, then back at the double doors. The gurney is rounding a corner, disappearing into the fluorescent gut of the hospital.
Knowing he’s right doesn’t make it any easier, but I relent and allow Axel to guide me toward a side room.
As I go through the motions of being a patient, it feels like an out-of-body experience. Suzie, an ER nurse I’ve shared coffee with, cleans the glass cuts on my hands. She’s being gentle, but I find myself critiquing her technique just to keep my mind from wandering to the operating theater.
After an X-Ray, she comes back, smiling. "Mild sprain. No fracture," she confirms my own assessment.
I answer her triage questions on autopilot. Yes, I’m warm. No, I don’t want meds. Yes, I’ll find some crutches as soon as I know Silas is okay.
When I finally limp out into the corridor, Caleb is waiting. He stands up immediately and helps me hobble to a chair.
"He’s in surgery," he says, answering the question I haven't asked yet. "Dr. Reeves. Is he any good?"
I let out a breath I feel like I’ve been holding since the cabin. “He’s the best.”
"Thank the Lord," Caleb says, eyes upward. He returns his gaze to me. “Your mother’s security detail has been stood down. She’s fine."
I release a shaky breath. "Thank you. I needed to hear that."
Caleb shifts, looking hesitant. “I don’t know how to soften this, so I’m going to rip it off fast, like a Band-Aid… Reagan wired your house to catch fire.”
The air leaves my lungs. “He did what?”
“No one was hurt,” Caleb adds quickly. “Structural assessment pending. It’s repairable.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. As long as no one was harmed. It’s just a house.”
And I mean it. The manor. My things. It all feels like it belongs to a different person, a different life. None of it matters as much as the man behind those double doors.
"Nothing that happened was his fault," I say, my voice finally finding its edge again. “But he’ll be blaming himself.”
A flicker of grim respect crosses Caleb's face. "Yeah," he says quietly. "He always does."