20. Vincent
20
VINCENT
My chest hurts—feels like an elephant is sitting on top of me, crushing the air from my lungs. Every breath is a battle, every second a struggle against the weight that won’t let up. Then comes the pain—sharp, relentless, like I’ve been split open from the inside. My body is on fucking fire, burning from the inside out. Fuck, the pain simmers and I clear my throat trying to breathe.
I try to move my hand to wipe my face—nothing. It doesn’t even twitch. I stare at it, willing it to move, but it just lays there, useless, like it doesn’t even belong to me.
Panic surges through me, but it’s sluggish, like my mind can’t keep up with my body’s distress. My eyelids feel like they’ve been sewn shut, my limbs foreign, unresponsive.
Am I dead?
No. Dead men don’t feel pain.
I fight against the fog, forcing my eyes open, and the world is a blur of too-bright lights and sterile white walls. Machines beep in a steady rhythm, matching the sluggish beat of my own heart. The air smells like antiseptic, too clean, too artificial.
A hospital.
Memories start creeping in—flashes of pain, of gunfire, of her screaming my name.
Willow.
My chest seizes at the thought, and I try again to move, to sit up, to find her.
Footsteps. A soft gasp.
Then—her voice.
“Vincent?”
I turn my head, and there she is.
Willow stands frozen in the doorway, her hands trembling at her sides, her eyes wide and shining with unshed tears. Her dark hair is a tangled mess around her shoulders, her clothes wrinkled, like she hasn’t changed in days. There’s something raw about her, a hollow calmness, like she’s been carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders since the last time I saw her.
She takes one step forward, then another, and suddenly, the dam breaks. “God, Vincent,” she chokes out, her hands clutching at the fabric of my hospital gown. “You almost—” Her voice breaks, and she shakes her head, tears spilling over. “I thought I lost you.”
I want to wipe them away. Want to tell her I’m fine, that I’m not going anywhere—but the truth is, I feel like hell. My body is sluggish, weighed down by painkillers and exhaustion. The effort to move is monumental, and when I try to lift my hand, the IV tugging at my skin and the itch tube up my nostrils reminds me of just how screwed up I am.
Still, I manage to rasp out,“Takes more than that to get rid of me.”
A watery laugh bursts from her lips, and then—she’s pressing her forehead to my arm, her shoulders shaking as she cries.
I hate it.
Hate that I put that look on her face. Hate that she’s been sitting here, waiting, worrying. Hate that I wasn’t strong enough to stay awake for her when she needed me to.
I grit my teeth, swallowing against the dryness in my throat. “How long?”
Willow lifts her head, sniffing. “Three weeks.”
Shit.
I close my eyes briefly, trying to process it. Three weeks of nothing. Three weeks of her sitting here, waiting for me to wake up.
I shift, attempting to sit up, but pain lances through my side like a hot blade. A curse rips from my throat, my hands clenching into fists against the sheets.
“Hey, stop—” Willow is on me in an instant, pressing her hands to my chest, urging me back down. “You’re still healing, Vincent. You can’t just?—”
“I’m fine,” I grit out.
She glares at me through her tears. “No, you’re not.”
The door swings open before I can argue. A doctor steps in, followed by a nurse and Damien stands looking at me from across the room.
I can tell by the way his jaw is set, by the way his eyes narrow on me like he’s sizing up my condition, that he’s been waiting for this.
Willow straightens, wiping at her face, but she doesn’t let go of me completely. Her fingers stay curled around my wrist like she’s anchoring herself there.
Damien crosses the room, arms folding over his chest. “You look like shit.”
I huff a weak laugh. “Feel like it, too.”
The doctor clears his throat, stepping forward. “Mr. Beaumont, good to see you awake.” His voice is calm, professional, but there’s an edge of scrutiny in his gaze as he takes me in. “We need to run a few tests, check your reflexes, and assess any potential nerve damage.”
Willow tenses beside me, her grip tightening around my wrist.
I grit my teeth. “Let’s get it over with.”
The doctor nods, pulling on a pair of gloves before signaling for the nurse to adjust my bed. The slight incline sends a fresh wave of pain through my side, but I swallow it down, locking my jaw.
“First, let’s get this feeding tube out of your nose,” the nurse says gently, offering me a reassuring smile. Her gloved hands steadily reach for the thin tube taped to my cheek.
“Take a deep breath in,” she instructs, and as I do, she carefully begins to pull. The sensation is strange—uncomfortable and unsettling, a mix of pressure and relief as the tube glides out of my throat and nostril. My eyes water involuntarily, and I blink rapidly as she sets the discarded tube aside.
“There we go,” she soothes, dabbing at my nose with a tissue. “All done.”
Before I can fully process the absence of the tube, the doctor steps forward, clipboard in hand. “We’ll check your sensation,” he says, shifting to the foot of the bed. “Tell me if you can feel this.”
I brace myself as he presses a blunt instrument, maybe the end of a pen—against the sole of my foot.
Nothing.
My chest tightens. “Again,” I say, my voice rough.
The doctor obliges, pressing harder this time.
Still nothing.
Fuck.
I glance at Willow. Her lips part, her eyes widening as she realizes what this means. Panic flickers in the depths of her gaze, but she doesn’t say anything. Just grips my wrist harder.
Damien shifts, his arms still crossed, but I don’t miss the way his jaw clenches.
The doctor moves higher, pressing against my shin. “Feel that?”
I exhale sharply. “No.”
He continues, testing along my leg, moving closer to where I know I should be able to feel at least a little sensation. I hold my breath, waiting, dreading.
Then—finally, when he reaches just above my knee, I feel it.
A faint, dull pressure.
Relief slams into me like a freight train, but it’s short-lived. Because this? This still isn’t good.
The doctor straightens, his expression carefully neutral. “It looks like there’s some sensory impairment in your lower extremities. We’ll need to run further tests, but the fact that you have partial sensation is a positive sign.”
A positive sign.
I want to laugh. The words feel empty, useless. A bullet tears through me, and now I can’t even tell if someone’s touching my own damn leg.
Willow’s breathing is uneven. When I glance at her, she’s staring at my legs like she can will them back to normal with sheer force alone.
I reach for her hand. “Hey,” I murmur, squeezing as tightly as I can. “I’m still here.”
Her eyes snap up to mine, glossy with unshed tears. “But what if—” She swallows hard. “What if you never?—”
“I will,” I cut in, my voice firm despite the exhaustion overwhelming me. “This isn’t permanent.”
The doctor nods. “With the right physical therapy, there’s a strong chance you’ll regain full function. The nerves may be in shock, but they can recover.”
“ Good,” I smile, though it takes more effort than I’d like. “Wouldn’t want to deprive you of my charming presence.”
Willow doesn’t laugh this time. Instead, she leans in, pressing her forehead to mine, her fingers trembling in my grip.
Damien lingers near the window, arms crossed over his chest. His usual sharp gaze is unreadable, but his presence is grounding. He’s always been like that. A solid force, someone who doesn’t crumble even when the world around him does.
The door swings open again, and this time, it’s Cast.
The room shifts.
His presence fills the space, taking up more than just the physical. Cast is a force of nature—unshakable, unreadable, and right now, furious .
His eyes land on me first. His jaw tightens. His gaze flicks to the machines beeping at my bedside, to the IV in my arm, to the bandages wrapped around my torso. And then—he looks at Willow.
At the way she’s clinging to me like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.
A dark expression flashes through his eyes.
“Cast,” Willow breathes, straightening. Her hand twitches like she’s about to reach for him, but at the last second, she stops.
His expression doesn’t change. “You’re awake.”
I smirk, or at least, I try to. “No shit.”
The wry grin he gives me back is cold, humorless. He takes slow, measured steps into the room, his gaze assessing. He looks like a man unraveling a puzzle, picking apart every detail, looking for weak spots.
Looking for answers.
He stops at the foot of my bed, eyes locked on mine. “What do you remember?”
I exhale sharply, dragging a hand down my face. “Not much.” A pause. “Gunshot. Blood. Willow.”
Beside me, she stiffens.
Cast’s gaze flicks to her again. Just for a second.
I shift, ignoring the ache it sends through my side. “Whoever did this—they were aiming for her .”
Silence drops like a hammer.
Willow’s breath hitches. I feel her stare burning into the side of my face, but I don’t look at her.
Damien finally speaks up from his spot by the window. “We know.”
My blood turns to ice.
Cast is still watching me, his face unreadable. “We’re handling it.”
Handling it.
The way he says it makes my skin prickle. Because Cast doesn’t handle things the way normal people do.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I demand.
Willow shifts uneasily, but it’s Cast who answers.
“Later.”
I grit my teeth. “No. Now. ”
Cast tilts his head slightly, his expression never wavering. “You just woke up from a coma. Your body is weak. Your legs aren’t responding the way they should.” A slow, deliberate pause. “You need to focus on yourself right now.”
Focus on myself?
My grip tightens on the blanket. “You think I give a damn about my legs when someone tried to kill Willow?”
Willow flinches.
Cast still doesn’t react. “You should.”
My patience snaps. “Just tell me who it was.”
His lips press into a thin line. “Not yet.”
I clench my jaw. This is how Cast operates—controlling, withholding, always five steps ahead. But I’m not in the mood to play by his rules.
I push myself up higher in bed, ignoring the pain that flares through me. “You think I’m just going to sit here and wait? That I won’t find out myself?”
His expression darkens. “You’re in no condition to do anything, Vincent.”
I grit my teeth and snarl at him. “You will not keep me in the dark about the person who almost fucking killed me, Cast.”
Damien sighs. “He has a point, Cast.”
Willow shifts next to me, and Cast growls under his breath. Cast’s gaze doesn’t waver. His silence stretches, thick and suffocating, compacting on my chest like a weight.
Then—finally—he speaks.
“There’s a mole.”
I blink, my brain sluggish from the meds, trying to catch up. “What?”
Cast’s expression is hard to decode, but there’s a sharpness in his eyes, something lethal lurking beneath the surface. “Someone’s been feeding information to the wrong people. And a girl—” He pauses, jaw tightening. “She’s been collecting intel. On us. On Willow. ”
The air in the room shifts.
Willow’s grip on my hand tightens, and I feel her nails press into my skin.
I shake my head, my pulse spiking. “Who?”
Cast doesn’t answer right away. He glances at Damien who’s still leaning against the window. There’s an unspoken conversation there, something I can’t decipher in my current state.
Finally, Cast exhales, slow and controlled. “Her name is Valentina Torres.”
I search my memory, but the name means nothing to me. “Who the hell is that?”
Cast tilts his head slightly, his gaze never leaving mine. “That’s what we’re figuring out.”
Rage coils in my gut, fighting against the exhaustion dragging me down. “She the one who pulled the trigger?”
“No.” His answer is immediate. “But she knows who did.”
My throat is dry, but I force out the words. “Where is she?”
Cast talks lower than I think he ever has before. “We don’t know who she is yet.”
I stiffen. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“She’s careful,” Cast says, his voice sharp with frustration. “Whoever she is, she’s been playing the long game—watching, listening, gathering information. And now? She’s getting ready to use it.”
A slow, burning fury ignites in my chest. I flex my fingers, my grip tightening around the sheets. “So we’re dealing with a ghost?”
Damien speaks for the first time since Cast walked in. “Not a ghost. A hunter.” His voice is low, edged with vitriol. “And we’re the prey.”
I don’t like that.
I hate that.
My jaw clenches, my heart hammering against my ribs despite the drugs dulling my system. My mind runs through every possibility, every enemy we’ve made over the years, every grudge left to fester in the dark. But nothing clicks. Nothing makes sense.
And then—suddenly it does.
Ricardo.
I stiffen. “Where the hell is Ricardo?”
The second the words leave my mouth, the air shifts.
Willow tenses beside me. Cast doesn’t blink. Willow won’t meet my eyes. There’s something in the way her fingers tighten around my wrist, in the way her throat bobs when she swallows, that sets me on edge.
A slow, creeping suspicion slithers up my spine.
I wet my lips. “Cast,” I say, my voice dangerously low. “Where. Is. Ricardo?”
Cast’s smirk is slight, almost approving, as he nods toward Willow. “Why don’t you ask her? ”
I turn my head sharply, my eyes locking onto hers. “Willow?”
She swallows hard, her fingers twitching. “He’s dead.”
Everything stops.
A strange, almost eerie calm settles over me, drowning out the steady beep of the machines, Cast’s dark stare, the knowing sneer tugging at Damien’s mouth.
I stare at her, my mind catching on the words, flipping them over and over again, as if testing their weight.
Then, slowly, I lean forward. “ You killed him.”
Willow presses her lips together, her jaw tight. “He—he was going to kill me, Vincent.” Her voice is soft, hesitant. “I didn’t have a choice.”
And just like that?—
A grin spreads across my face.
“My little devil,” I murmur, my voice full of praise. I lift my hand—ignoring the soreness in my muscles—and cup her chin, tilting her face up. “Bringing hell to the men who deserve it.”
Willow’s eyes widen, her lips parting slightly. A deep blush creeps up her neck, blooming across her cheeks.
She’s expecting—what? Guilt? Horror?
No. Not from me.
My chest rumbles with a chuckle, my thumb brushing over her bottom lip. “And here I was worried I’d have to protect you forever.”
Willow blinks rapidly, her breath stuttering. “Vincent?—”
I press my finger against her lips, shushing her. “We’ll talk about it later, princess .” Then I glance at Cast, my grin turning sharper. “Right now, we’ve got bigger problems.”
Cast inclines his head slightly, watching me carefully. “That we do.”
I shift against the pillows, my body aching with the effort, but I don’t care. A fire burns in my gut, chasing away the sluggishness of sleep and drugs.
Some girl thinks she can come for us?
I shake my head, amusement curling at the edges of my lips. “It’s time to hunt a hunter.”