Chapter Thirteen #2
They’d seen this before. Had stood in this same room or one like it, had waited for this same news or worse, had watched men they loved get wheeled through those same doors and come back changed or not come back at all.
The knowledge of it lived in their bodies -- in the way they occupied space, in the careful economy of their movements, in the absolute certainty with which they’d claimed every inch of the waiting room the moment they’d walked through the door.
My hands were cold. My back ached from sitting in the same position for too long. My throat felt dry in a way the water couldn’t touch, and the numbness that had settled into my chest when Whisper had first said the words had started to give way to something sharper.
The double doors remained shut, giving nothing away. I stared at them with my hands spread over my belly and held onto the only things that mattered -- him, the babies -- while time crawled forward one agonizing minute at a time.
The doors finally opened -- not the careful, measured movement of a nurse coming to check on the waiting room, but the swing of someone with news that couldn’t wait.
The sound sliced through the silence -- metal latch, slow creak of hinges -- and every eye in the room locked onto the doorway as it opened.
I straightened without thinking about it, my attention fixed on the space where the doors had parted.
The man who stepped through was still in scrubs -- light blue with darker patches at the elbows and knees, the mark of someone who’d been on his feet for hours.
His mask was pulled down around his chin, a clipboard clutched in one hand, his gaze moving across the room with the focus of someone looking for a specific face.
He found mine without hesitation, his attention narrowing to the single point where I sat with my back to the wall and my hands pressed against my stomach.
The Kings quieted all at once -- not relaxed, not easy, but tense in a way that made the entire room feel suspended.
Chairs creaked as men shifted their weight.
Boots scraped against linoleum as Prospects straightened their spines.
No one spoke. No one moved to intercept the surgeon or demand answers.
They just waited, their gazes moving between the surgeon’s face and the place where I sat.
The surgeon crossed the room toward me, his movements unhurried but precise, carrying the calm control of someone long accustomed to moments like this. He stopped three feet from my chair, clipboard held loosely at his side, his expression giving away nothing.
“Nitro made it through surgery,” he said, the words coming out direct and uncompromising. “The bullet is out. He’s stable.”
Something moved through the room. My hands stayed where they were -- pressed flat against my belly, fingers spread wide as if I could keep the twins from hearing, from knowing, from being touched by what had happened.
The surgeon paused, his attention moving from my face to the clipboard in his hand and back again.
“It’s going to be a long recovery,” he continued, his tone shifting slightly.
“The bullet went through the upper left quadrant of his torso. It missed the major vessels, but it did significant damage to the muscle tissue and grazed the edge of his lung.”
He paused again, his gaze on my face, waiting to see if I was following.
I nodded, sharp and deliberate, and he continued.
“He’ll need weeks of restricted movement, possibly follow-up procedures depending on how the tissue heals.
There are no guarantees on timeline -- every body heals at its own pace, and with an injury like this… ”
He let the sentence trail off. I absorbed both pieces -- he’s alive, and it isn’t over -- without looking away from his face.
My breathing stayed even. My hands stayed steady.
My eyes stayed dry. I accepted the hard truth hidden inside his careful explanation -- surviving was only the beginning, and recovery would demand far more than making it through surgery.
The room behind me exhaled -- not all at once, not in unison, but in the rhythm of a group that had been holding the same breath for hours. Voices rose slightly -- not to full volume, not yet, but enough to break the careful silence that had held since I’d arrived.
I kept my focus on the surgeon’s face, on the lines at the corners of his eyes, on the attention he was paying to my reaction. “When can I see him?” I asked.
“He’s still in recovery,” he said. “It’ll be at least an hour before he’s transferred to a room. The nurses will come get you when he’s settled.”
I nodded again, holding onto the only part that mattered -- that he was alive, and eventually there would come a moment when I could see him again instead of imagining what waited beyond those doors.
Whisper crouched down beside my chair, her movements unhurried but precise, and took my hand in both of hers. Her palms were warm against my skin, her grip careful but certain, her gaze on my face with the attention of someone making absolutely sure I was listening.
“You should go home,” she said gently, like she already expected resistance. “Rest. Eat something. Take care of yourself and the babies.” She paused, her thumb making one slow pass across my knuckles. “That’s what Nitro would want. You know that.”
I really looked at her for the first time since arriving, giving her my full attention instead of the distracted scraps I’d been offering everyone else. I held her gaze, and said it plainly. “I’m not leaving. Not until I see him.”
She squeezed my hand once, firm and brief, and straightened up without another word. No argument.
Around us, the Kings shifted -- not away, not back, but closer.
Chairs scraped across linoleum as men rearranged themselves.
A Prospect took up a post near the door, his back to the wall, his gaze moving between the hallway and the place where I sat.
Beast folded his arms and planted himself three feet from my chair, making it clear he had no intention of going anywhere either.
No one pushed me. No one told me I was wrong. They simply closed ranks and stayed.
I turned my attention back to the AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL doors. I kept my gaze fixed on them, my hands pressed flat against my belly, and held onto that -- onto him, onto them.
The minutes stretched into what felt like hours and the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with their particular insistence that time was passing whether anyone was ready for it or not.
And when the doors finally opened again -- when the nurse stepped through with a clipboard in her hand and my name on her lips -- I was still there, still waiting, holding on for the moment when I could finally touch him again.