Chapter 36
thirty-six
Zach
They bring the wheelchair in like it’s already decided.
Like there isn’t going to be a discussion about it, like the moment it crosses the threshold of the room it becomes inevitable, and I see the exact second Lia registers it, the way her expression shifts, the subtle tightening in her jaw as she looks from the chair to us, already preparing to push back.
“I don’t need that,” she says, and her voice is stronger than it has been, steadier, like she’s trying to reclaim something of herself in the middle of all of this. “I can walk.”
She shifts in the bed as she says it, pushing herself up slightly, and for a moment I let myself believe she might manage it, that she might be able to prove her point, but then the movement catches, sharp and immediate, her breath hitching as her hand instinctively presses to her side, her body betraying her before she can control it.
Elijah moves before she can even finish reacting to it, his hand already at her waist, steady, firm, like he’s anchoring her in place.
“No,” he says, and there’s nothing raised about his voice, nothing outwardly harsh, but there is absolutely no room for negotiation in it. “You’re not walking out of here.”
“I’m fine,” she insists, quieter now, like she knows she’s already lost part of the argument but isn’t willing to give it up completely. “It’s just sore.”
“Angel,” he says, and the word lands softer but the meaning doesn’t change, “you were stabbed. You’re not walking.”
She looks at him, really looks at him, and I can see the flicker of resistance there, the need to hold onto control after everything that’s been taken from her, the need to not feel fragile even if her body is telling her something different.
“I don’t need a wheelchair,” she says again, and this time her gaze shifts to me, like she’s expecting something else from me, expecting me to balance it, to soften it, to give her another option.
I step closer instead, not opposing Elijah, not undercutting him, just reinforcing it in a way that holds her steady rather than pins her down.
“You don’t need it,” I say, keeping my voice calm, even, grounded. “But we’re using it anyway.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, searching my face, and I know what she’s looking for. That familiar push and pull that used to sit between us, the space where she could shift things if she pressed hard enough.
It isn’t there.
Not this time.
“We’re just making it easier on your body,” I add, softer now, letting the edge of care come through without losing the certainty. “That’s all.”
There’s a pause where I can see her weighing it, deciding if this is worth fighting, if this is a line she wants to push right now.
It isn’t.
She exhales quietly instead, the tension easing just slightly from her shoulders as she lets the nurse guide her, lets Elijah support her weight as she moves into the chair, even if she doesn’t like it.
That’s enough.
For now, that’s enough.
Elijah is already on the phone by the time we leave the room, his voice low but controlled in a way that carries further than it should, each word placed with intent.
“Double it,” he says, and I don’t need to hear the other end to know Christian is listening carefully. “I want someone at the entrance at all times. No rotation gaps.”
He listens for a second, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
“No,” he continues, quieter now, but sharper for it, “not building security. Mine.”
There’s a finality in it that doesn’t invite discussion.
I don’t interrupt.
Neither does Jackson.
We don’t question it anymore.
There was a time when we would have, when we would have pushed back against the level of control he exerts, tested it, resisted it in small ways just to prove we still could.
That time is gone.
Whatever snapped into place in him when we found her, whatever crossed that line out there in the warehouse, it didn’t leave him when we walked away from it.
And none of us are stupid enough to try and pull him back from it now.
He handles security.
We let him.
Because we all saw what happens when something slips through.
I walk beside the chair as we move through the hospital, my attention fixed on her in a way that feels different now, less reactive, less chaotic, more… structured.
I’m not just watching for pain.
I’m watching for everything.
The way her shoulders hold tension even when she’s trying to relax. The slight delay in her breathing when she shifts. The way her fingers curl and uncurl in her lap like her body hasn’t fully settled back into itself yet.
Healing.
Recovery.
Support.
My mind moves through it automatically, slotting things into place with a clarity I haven’t had in a long time.
She needs consistency. She needs warmth. Food that actually rebuilds what she lost, not just fills the space.
Iron.
Protein.
Gentle on her stomach. Frequent, smaller portions so her body doesn’t have to work harder than it needs to. Hydration steady, not forced.
No spikes.
No crashes.
And underneath all of that, the baby.
That thought doesn’t overwhelm me the way it probably should.
It settles.
It roots.
She isn’t just recovering.
She’s building something.
And I know exactly what to do with that.
By the time we reach the elevator, I’m already running through everything I changed this morning, the way I cleared out the kitchen, replaced everything that didn’t serve a purpose, stocked it properly, set it up so she doesn’t have to think, doesn’t have to reach, doesn’t have to do anything except exist and let her body do what it needs to do.
Because if it’s easy, if it feels good, if it feels like care instead of obligation, she’ll accept it.
She’ll lean into it.
And I need her to lean into it.
“You’re all being a little over the top,” she murmurs as the elevator doors close, her gaze moving between us, a hint of something lighter threading through her voice now, something almost teasing despite everything.
I glance at her.
“No, we’re not.”
She huffs softly, her eyes shifting to Jackson like she’s expecting him to soften it, to balance it out the way he usually does.
He smiles instead, warm and easy, his hand brushing gently over her shoulder.
“It’s not over the top, sweetheart,” he says, his voice low, steady, reassuring. “We’re just looking after you.”
Her lips press together slightly, her gaze flicking back to me, to Elijah, back to Jackson again.
“I feel like you’re ganging up on me.”
There’s something almost normal about the complaint, something that doesn’t belong to hospitals or blood or fear, and I hold onto that more than anything else in this moment.
I meet her eyes.
“We are,” I say, without hesitation.
She blinks at that, caught off guard.
I don’t soften it.
“We’re just doing it for the right reasons.”
She studies me for a second longer, like she’s deciding whether to push it, whether to fight that line or let it settle.
She lets it settle.
Leans back into the chair slightly, her body giving in just enough to show she’s accepting it, even if she’s not entirely happy about it.
The drive back is quieter than it should be, but not in a way that feels heavy.
Contained.
That’s the only way I can describe it.
Elijah drives, his focus absolute, his attention flicking between mirrors, the road, everything around us like he’s mapping it all without consciously thinking about it.
Jackson sits beside her in the back, close but careful, his arm resting just behind her like a barrier, like he’s there without crowding her.
I sit on her other side, close enough to feel the warmth of her, close enough to see every small shift in her expression, every flicker of discomfort she tries to hide.
She’s quiet.
Not withdrawn.
Just… processing.
Coming back into herself.
There’s someone already standing at the entrance of her building when we arrive.
Not subtle. Not hidden. Just there. Visible. A message more than security.
Lia notices immediately.
“Elijah…”
“He stays,” he says, not even looking at her as he moves around to her side, opening the door, his focus already back on her as he helps her out.
“It’s a bit much,” she says, softer now, not pushing, just questioning.
“It’s not enough,” he replies.
And that’s it.
There’s no discussion.
No negotiation.
And neither Jackson nor I contradict him.
Getting her upstairs takes longer.
We let her walk a little this time, just enough to give her that sense of control she’s still holding onto, just enough that she doesn’t feel completely managed.
But we don’t give her enough space to hurt herself.
Not even close.
By the time we get her into the bedroom, I can already see the fatigue settling into her, the way her shoulders drop slightly, the way her body starts to give in.
“Bed,” I say quietly.
“I was already planning on that,” she murmurs, a faint trace of humor in it.
I almost smile.
We settle her carefully, adjusting pillows, positioning her so there’s no strain on her side, no pressure where there shouldn’t be, everything deliberate, everything controlled.
Jackson pulls the blanket over her, tucking it in with an ease that feels instinctive now, his fingers brushing lightly over her hair.
“There you go, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Comfortable?”
She nods.
“Yeah.”
Elijah is already on the phone again, pacing slightly now.
“I want eyes on the street,” he says quietly. “Everything.”
His voice lowers further, too low to hear properly, but I don’t need the details. I know what he’s doing.
“I’m going to make you something to eat,” I say, stepping back.
She looks at me.
“You don’t have to—”
“I do,” I cut in gently, not harsh, not forceful, just certain. Her expression softens slightly. She doesn’t argue.
“I’m serious,” she says instead, her gaze moving between us. “You don’t need to be here every second. What about practice?”
The word lands. Sits there. Ignored for just a fraction too long.
“Everything’s handled,” Elijah says without looking up. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
Her eyes move to me.
“And you?”
“I’m exactly where I need to be,” I say.
And I mean it. There’s no hesitation in it. No conflict. Just truth. Because somewhere between losing her and getting her back, something in me settled.
The pull that used to exist, the constant split between what I was supposed to be doing and where I actually wanted to be, it’s gone.
I already chose. I just didn’t realize it at the time.
I step into the kitchen, everything exactly where I left it this morning, clean, organized, ready.
I move automatically, putting things together without overthinking it, something warm, something easy, something her body won’t have to fight.
Comfort.
Not effort.
The kettle clicks on.
My hands move.
This is what I want. This is what I stay for.