Chapter 30
Hospitals feel different when you enter them as a visitor instead of a provider. I’ve spent nearly a decade of my adult life moving through corridors like these with purpose. Clipboard in hand, pager buzzing, brain already ten steps ahead of whatever crisis awaited me behind the next curtain.
Today, I’m just… walking.
The fluorescent lights are harsher, somehow, and the antiseptic more intrusive as it crawls into my lungs. The beep of machines doesn’t carry the same usual comfort. Instead, they’re loud and obnoxious.
Jagger stays close, without hovering, his presence a steady heat at my side. His hand brushes mine occasionally, not quite holding it, but enough to remind me he’s there. That I’m not doing this alone.
Zahra’s room is near the end of the hall, guarded quietly by Damon.
His shoulders are braced on the wall outside her door.
His arms are crossed, and his posture is loose but alert in a way that I recognize instantly.
Alert and standing sentry, without looking like he is.
He straightens when he sees us, nodding once.
“She’s awake,” he says softly. “Pain has been rough, but the nurses say her vitals are stable.” Relief hits me so hard I have to brace myself against the wall for a second.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“I’ll be right here.” Jagger squeezes my hand before letting it slide from his as I push open the door.
Zahra looks smaller in the hospital bed than she ever has behind the nurses’ station.
Small and so fragile, stripped of the competence and sharp humor she wore like armor at work.
Her face is mottled, one eye swollen enough that it’s barely open.
Crusted blood stains her lips where they were split.
Tubing disappears beneath the blanket from the IV lines taped to her arm.
The monitor at her bedside blinks steadily, its rhythm both comforting and terrifying.
When she sees me, her mouth curves into the faintest smile. “Hey,” she croaks.
“Hey, yourself,” I manage, my voice softer than I expect as my throat tightens. After moving to her side, I carefully take her hand in both of mine. Her skin is warm. The simple fact of that feels like a miracle.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it anyway.
“Like I got hit by a truck,” she mutters. “Then reversed over. Twice.”
I huff out a shaky laugh that turns into something dangerously close to a sob.
I press my lips together, trying to keep my feelings contained.
“Yeah,” I say hoarsely. “That tracks.” I nod, blinking hard.
I try to stow my emotions away, the only way I know how.
“Surgery went as well as it could. You’re going to be—”
“I’m okay, Blake.” Her grip tightens around my fingers, knowing exactly what I’m doing. Zahra has always seen right through me. “Really. It hurts like hell, but I’m here.”
Her gaze softens, but beneath it there’s something deeper—something fractured that no scan or lab result will ever show. I recognize it instantly, because I’ve seen it far too many times in patients who survive what their bodies can recover from, but their minds don’t quite know how to carry.
“You’re probably going to need some time,” I say gently. “And support. Therapy. More than the physical.”
She gives a humorless snort that catches me off guard. “You saying I’m gonna be fucked up? Is that your professional medical opinion?”
“I’m saying you’re human,” I reply. “And it’s okay to not be okay. What happened to you isn’t something you just walk off.”
Zahra’s gaze drifts behind me to the door—at Jagger and Damon—and back to me. I answer her question before she can ask it. “The man outside. That’s Damon. He’s good people. Safe. If you need anything, he’ll take care of it. And no one comes near you unless they’re supposed to. I promise.”
She exhales, some of the tension draining from her shoulders. “Okay.”
Silence settles over the room, thick with everything we’re not saying. My chest tightens until the words push their way out before I can stop them. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “Zahra, I am so—”
“No,” she interrupts sharply, squeezing my hand firmly. “No. This was not your fault.”
I shake my head, regret roaring to life. “If I hadn’t—”
“This was not your fault,” she repeats, more sternly. “I walked into that surgery with you. I knew exactly what we were doing. I knew the risks. I chose to take them.”
Tears burn behind my eyes, hot and relentless. “You shouldn’t have had to.”
“And neither should Maryam,” she counters, causing a tear to roll down my face. Hers softens in response. “This isn’t on you. We made a choice. And it was the right one.”
I squeeze her hand, the guilt still tearing at me.
She glances past me, toward Jagger, then back again. “Does he know?”
“Yes,” I answer quietly. “I just… haven’t told him where.”
Her brow furrows slightly. “Is she okay?”
“She has a few days of supplies,” I share. “She and Aliyah will be okay. For now.”
Zahra nods slowly, eyes closing briefly at the relief. “Good.”
I don’t stay long. She’s exhausted, pain dragging at her despite the medication, and I refuse to take more than she has to give. Before we leave, I smooth her hair back gently, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be back,” I promise. “Soon.”
“I know.” She gives a faint smile. “You’re a total sucker for a woman in distress.”
I thank Damon again for watching over my friend before we leave.
The drive back to the safe house is silent. Not awkward or angry. Just heavy.
When we walk inside, the tension from yesterday is still there, waiting for us like an uninvited guest. Hawk looks up from the table, and Gunnar gives a nod to acknowledge our presence. No one asks me anything, but I can feel their curiosity pressing in from all sides.
They want answers. They want the missing piece. They want me to tell them where Maryam is.
Dinner happens because it has to, because bodies need fuel even when their minds are elsewhere. In the kitchen, we move around each other, passing plates and setting utensils down with unnecessary care. Gunnar cooks, Hawk helps, and Jagger pretends not to watch me too closely.
The food tastes like cardboard. Conversation is sparse, polite but strained. I excuse myself early, mumbling something about needing a shower, and head upstairs before anyone can stop me.
I walk to the shared bathroom in the middle of the hall, close the door behind me, and lean against it, breathing deeply until the tightness in my chest eases a little. Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I splash water on my face. I look as tired as I feel.
The deep voices from downstairs drift up through the vent, low and indistinct. I can’t make out most of their words, just low murmurs and the occasional clink of dishes. “She’ll tell us.” Jagger’s voice comes through rough and certain.
Something twists in my chest, a brief moment of doubt that he is actually using me to get information.
I head into the room that Jagger and I are sharing.
It’s small and sparse, nothing in it except a bed, a dresser, and a lamp on the floor.
I change into pajamas, more correctly Jagger’s oversized shirt, and slide between the sheets, desperately hoping this gnawing fear at me, saying Jagger and I are just a job, is just that. Fear.