Chapter 18 Rowan
ROWAN
The hospital room smells faintly of antiseptic and over-laundered sheets, cleaner than the trauma bay but never completely free of the metallic trace that lingers in places like this.
The overhead lights are dimmed, leaving the room in a muted glow that suggests rest without ever fully delivering it.
The monitor beside the bed gives a soft, periodic tone, quietly tracking his heart rate.
Ethan lies propped at a slight incline, his shoulder secured in a structured brace that keeps his fractured clavicle immobilized.
The strap cuts diagonally across his chest, securing him in a position he will despise the moment he is fully alert.
It’s a clean break. It’ll heal with patience and compliance, which he won’t enjoy.
Deep bruising spreads along his ribs, dark and mottled beneath the hospital gown. The tissue will ache for weeks. Every breath will remind him. The damage is significant enough to hurt but not enough to collapse a lung or rupture an organ.
His face is swollen on the left side. The cut above his eyebrow is closed with neat sutures I placed myself, each stitch aligned carefully to minimize scarring.
I remember the feel of the needle passing through his skin, the steadiness in my hands when I refused to let anger guide them.
I focused on closure, precision, and the fact that he was breathing.
He has a concussion, mild by textbook standards. No intracranial bleed. No midline shift. No indication of lasting neurological damage. But the next few days won’t be easy. He’ll be irritable and sensitive to light and sound. The kind of patient who insists he’s fine, even though he clearly isn't.
I swallow against the dryness in my throat and redirect my attention to the chart at the foot of the bed, even though I already know what it says.
They knew where to hit him. They knew where not to. And that precision is worse than chaos.
That realization lodges in my chest in a way that noise never could.
If this were chaos, if it were reckless and wild, I could hate it cleanly.
Anger would be simple. Loud and productive.
This isn’t that. This is calculated harm delivered with intentional restraint.
A message carved into bone and skin with enough care to keep him alive.
I step around the bed and rest my hand lightly against his uninjured shoulder.
His skin is warm beneath my palm. My little brother looks younger like this.
Not the EMT who barrels into disaster without hesitation.
Not the stubborn twenty-five-year-old who argues with me about everything from politics to protein intake.
Just the kid who used to climb into my bed during thunderstorms and pretend he wasn’t scared.
My throat tightens unexpectedly, and I adjust my weight to keep it from showing anywhere on my face.
I trace the line of stitches above his eyebrow with my eyes. The cut angles downward. Close to the orbital bone but not close enough to threaten his vision. Whoever did this understood anatomy.
I pull a chair closer and sit beside him, the legs scraping softly against the tile. The sound feels too loud in the quiet room. I lace my fingers together in my lap to keep them from trembling.
They used my brother to reach me. My pulse begins to thud on the inside of my wrist.
The door opens softly behind me. I don’t turn around. I know that rhythm of footsteps. Light but purposeful.
Lila.
She steps into the room with two paper cups in hand, steam curling faintly from one of them. Her curls are pulled into a loose ponytail today, exhaustion tucked beneath eyeliner that remains stubbornly perfect even at the end of a night shift.
“I bribed the nurse for the good tea,” she murmurs, holding one cup toward me.
I accept it without looking away from Ethan. My fingers curl around the warmth, grateful for something solid to hold.
“How is he?” she asks quietly.
“Stable,” I say softly. “Orthopedics set the arm. No internal injuries. Neuro checks are clean.”
She studies my face instead of the monitor. “And you?”
I take a careful sip of tea, letting the heat burn down my throat. “Functional.”
Her mouth tightens into a thin line, but she doesn’t push. She steps closer to the bed and rests her hand lightly on Ethan’s foot through the blanket. “He’s going to be furious when he wakes up.”
“He’s going to apologize,” I correct softly.
Her brows draw together. “For what?”
“For getting pulled into my mess.”
The words leave my mouth before I can filter them.
Lila’s gaze hardens. “Rowan.”
I shake my head once, cutting off whatever she was about to say. “Don’t.”
She inhales, then exhales slowly. “Okay.”
She sets her untouched tea on the windowsill and steps back. “I’ll give you space. Call if you need me.”
“I will.”
This time, it isn’t a lie.
When she leaves, the room feels heavier, though I refuse to acknowledge the sensation beyond that single thought. I focus on Ethan’s face. The swelling. The faint crease between his brows even in sleep.
His eyelids flutter.
I lean forward instantly, my chair scraping again. “Ethan.”
His lashes lift slowly, confusion clouding his eyes as awareness returns in uneven waves. He tries to lift his right arm and immediately inhales sharply, pain tightening his face.
“Don’t,” I murmur, my hand sliding to his shoulder to still him.
He blinks up at me, disorientation giving way to recognition. “Ro?”
“I’m here.”
His gaze moves slowly around the room, lingering on the monitor, the IV line, the brace securing his clavicle in place. I watch understanding come back in stages. Each detail pulls him further into memory. His jaw tightens when it all connects.
“I’m fine,” he mutters automatically.
A breath of humor almost escapes me. Almost.
“You’re not fine,” I reply evenly. “You’re fortunate.”
He swallows, his teeth grinding as his hand curls against the blanket. “I messed up.”
“No.”
His eyes flash with frustration. “They got the jump on me. I should’ve seen it coming.
” He adjusts slightly against the brace and winces, anger rising faster than the pain.
“This wasn’t random, Ro. There were threats.
Someone messing with your apartment door.
The car accident. Now you’re living somewhere guarded with security like it’s normal. Tell me what’s actually going on.”
I hold his gaze. He’s always known when I’m withholding. A concussion doesn’t dull that instinct.
“It started with a patient,” I tell him quietly. “His name was Alexei. He came into the emergency room and he didn’t make it. Before he died, he gave me information.”
Ethan’s eyes harden despite the haze.
“He uncovered something he wasn’t meant to know,” I continue.
“The people he was involved with want to know what he told me. Or they want to make sure it never surfaces. They’re trying to intimidate me.
Demonstrate reach.” I pause, choosing the next words carefully. “That’s why Kiren offered protection.”
Anger flares in my chest, hot and immediate. I draw a breath and force it down before it spills into my voice.
Ethan’s jaw clenches. “What people? Who are they?”
I consider softening it, but I don’t.
“They’re connected. Organized. Mafia-adjacent at minimum.”
His eyes darken, anger melting into protection.
“So, they attacked me to get to you.”
“Yes.”
I glance down at my hands, needing a second to break the intensity of his stare.
He exhales slowly through his teeth. “Then you don’t stay alone. Not anywhere. I don’t care how guarded it is.”
“I’m not alone,” I assure him. “I promise.”
He studies me, searching for what I’m not spelling out. After a long moment, he gives a reluctant nod.
“Okay,” he mutters. “But next time someone wants to send you a message, they can come find me standing up.”
“There won’t be a next time,” I answer, brushing my fingers lightly over his hand before stepping back. “Get some rest.”
The hallway feels too bright after the dimness of his room, the fluorescent lights reflecting off the polished floors and stainless-steel rails. Everything appears clean and structured.
My hands are none of those things. A tremor starts in my fingertips, small enough that I almost convince myself it isn’t there.
It builds anyway, moving through my fingers until I curl them into fists to contain it.
The effort does nothing. I flatten my palm against the cool wall beside me and lean into it, letting the cold surface calm me.
I draw a slow breath in, hold it for a count of three, and release it just as carefully. Then I do it again, waiting for my pulse to return to a pace I can trust.
My teeth grind together until my aches.
If I wasn’t with Kiren—
The thought forms fully this time.
If I hadn’t stepped into his orbit.
If I hadn’t refused distance.
If I had stayed adjacent instead of inside.
I close my eyes and shake my head once. No. This didn’t begin with him. This began with Alexei. With a dying man gripping my wrist and forcing information into my hands. With betrayal already in motion before I ever learned the word pakhan.
Footsteps echo softly down the corridor. I open my eyes.
Kiren walks toward me, his coat falling cleanly from his shoulders, his stride unbroken and even. There’s nothing dramatic about it. No raised voice. No visible urgency.
Still, the corridor adjusts around him. A nurse lowers her voice mid-sentence. A resident steps aside without looking directly at him, creating space as if it were instinct rather than a decision. No one stares or questions. They simply make room.
Kiren walks past me and into Ethan’s room. The door closes softly behind him.
I remain in the corridor, my pulse ticking in my ears, watching through the narrow glass panel. He stands at the foot of Ethan’s bed, still and assessing. Not emotional. Not reactive. Just taking in the damage.