35. I Just Saved Your Life
Chapter thirty-five
I Just Saved Your Life
Melina
Morning sunlight streams through the windshield, casting shadows over the quiet highway. We just dropped the kids at school, and the silence that follows feels like a gift. A cool breeze whispers through the cracked window, tangling my hair as I stretch my legs and sink into the seat.
Jax gives me a look. “Really?”
I grin. “What?”
He nods at my sprawled posture. “You’re over there lounging like this is a beach trip.”
I throw my arms up. “This is my natural state. Carefree. Thriving.”
He snorts. “You’re impossible.”
“I prefer endearing.”
He doesn’t answer, just shifts gears as we merge onto the street toward my house. It’s peaceful here. No traffic, no city noise. Only us, the truck, and the open road.
I watch him for a second—hands easy on the wheel, muscles finally relaxed. Jax is always on. Always watching. Right now? He’s at ease.
The radio crackles as I skip through stations, static giving way to music—then, the song.
We were both young when I first saw you. I close my eyes and the flashback starts…
I gasp dramatically, cranking the volume. “Oh, this is happening.”
Jax groans. “Seriously?”
“Come on. This is a masterpiece. Don’t act like you don’t know it.”
“Knowing Taylor Swift lyrics is a violation of the Geneva Convention.”
I clutch my chest. “Are you saying Taylor Swift is torture?”
“I’m saying she’s a menace.”
“You take that back.”
“I will not.”
Romeo, take me somewhere we can be alone…
I belt it out, drumming the dash like I’m center stage at Madison Square Garden. Jax sighs. Then, to my absolute delight, he caves and sings too. Loud. Off-key. Complete carnage.
I talked to your dad, go pick out a white dress…
He butchers the notes so badly, I slap my hands over my ears. “Jax, my ears are bleeding!”
He points, mid-lyric. “If I suffer, you suffer!”
I double over laughing until I can’t breathe, and for one perfect moment, all is right in the world.
Then—a flicker of motion, a gut-deep instinct, and everything shatters in an instant.
Jax reacts before I can—posture locking, grip yanking the wheel. “Shit—brace!”
He veers, but it’s too late. An SUV slams into the driver’s side like a battering ram. The impact hurls Jax against the door in a spray of shattered glass.
The airbags detonate, white-hot and deafening, as the truck lurches and spins. The tires shriek against the pavement, but it’s useless.
The seatbelt snaps tight over my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs. The world blurs into a dizzying rush—sky and asphalt flash by, branches whip past like knives, as a tree crashes into the passenger side. The truck jerks, the chassis groans, and we start to fall.
Pain flares through my ribs as my head hits something hard behind me. A shrill, piercing sound erupts in my skull. The window explodes beside me, sending glass shards flying across the dash, slicing into my forearm.
Smoke curls into the cabin—thick and chemical. The sharp, metallic smell of blood lingers. Gasoline, too. I wheeze, struggling to breathe.
And through the wreckage, Taylor keeps singing—bright, steady, heartbreakingly normal.
Then I turn, and everything else disappears.
Jax.
He’s slumped against his door, completely still. Blood is dripping down his temple, trailing along his jaw, seeping into his shirt. My stomach drops.
His left arm hangs limp, pinned between him and the crumpled metal. The fabric at his shoulder is torn, exposing an unnatural angle where his collarbone should be straight.
“Jax!” I jerk off my seatbelt and lunge forward. My fingers shake as I gently brush his cheek. It’s warm and wet under my touch.
His chest rises, barely—each breath is shallow with effort. His lips part with a faint hitch, pain visible in every movement. His entire left side took the hit.
I press closer, heartbeat hammering in my throat. “Jax,” I whisper, hand trembling against his face. “Please… wake up.”
The silence stretches, heavy with panic. Then—a crackle bursts over the truck’s sound system, calm and detached.
“This is OnStar. We’ve detected a crash. Is anyone injured?”
“Yes, there are two of us. My friend is unconscious.”
“Emergency services are en route to your location. Stay on the line.”
I glance at Jax, my stomach twisting. “Please hurry.”
His head shifts. A thin groan slips out, and his lids flutter. Relief crashes through me, quick and animal. Then his eyes clear, razor-bright—focus snapping into place.
“What the fuck just happened?”
“We got T-boned,” I breathe.
He takes me in quickly, the blood staining my arms as I clutch my ribs. His jaw tightens when he notices the cut on my forearm.
“Shit,” he grunts, pushing through the pain.
With one good hand, he tears the hem from his shirt and forms a ball of fabric, pressing it into my palm and forcing my fingers around it.
“Keep pressure right there. Don’t let up.”
The same calm voice crackles over the speaker. “Please confirm—are you able to exit the vehicle?”
Jax turns toward the sound, his words low and clipped. “Negative. Passenger side is pinned, driver’s door is crushed. I’m a former SEAL with advanced field trauma training—initiating triage before attempting egress.”
“Copy that, sir,” the operator states. “Emergency services are approximately seven minutes out.”
“Understood.” He turns back to me, jaw tight, eyes already scanning for signs of trauma.
“Melina.” His voice cuts through the haze. “Did you hit your head?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Everything’s spinning.”
He leans in, one hand cradling my skull, fingers warm as they sift through my hair and part at the crown.
“Shit.” His thumb brushes the split of skin. “You’ve got a gash here.” He probes gently. “It isn’t deep, but it’s bleeding like hell. You’ll probably need staples—scalp wounds don’t hold stitches well.”
His gaze drops to the blood-soaked cloth at my arm. He peels it off just enough to see. “This one’s worse,” he says. “You’re gonna need stitches. Quite a few.”
He presses the fabric into place with steady hands. “Keep putting pressure.”
I suck in a breath, but he’s already shifting focus.
“Quick concussion assessment—answer a few things for me?”
I nod slowly, the motion sending a fresh wave of dizziness through me.
“What’s your name?”
“Melina.”
“What year is it?”
“2025.”
“Okay. Who’s the president?”
“God, I don’t know—do we still have one?”
A faint twitch lifts the corner of his mouth. He lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “Still sarcastic. Good sign.”
I force a smile.
“Nausea? Dizziness? Ringing?”
“No nausea. Dizziness and ringing.”
He exhales once. “Alright—look at me.” He holds up two fingers. “Follow them.”
He shifts them side to side, then up and down—observing every flicker of my gaze as if it might save me.
“Good. Eyes tracking. Pupils equal, reactive.” His voice softens. “No obvious signs of brain bleed. Probable mild concussion.”
He brushes my hair away and presses against my carotid. “Pulse is elevated. You’re in shock—that’s normal.” He stays focused. “Talk to me. Where’s the worst of it?”
I swallow. “Right side. Breathing hurts.”
“Okay. I need to check for broken ribs. Can you lean forward for me?”
I bite out a breath and do it.
“Easy… that’s it.”
His hand slides around my back, palm flat against my ribcage. He pushes down, then moves along the line of bone, feeling each one. A raw sound rips out of me.
“There,” he says. “Cracked. At least two, maybe more.” He doesn’t flinch, just holds me upright so I don’t fold.
“You’re breathing,” he adds, scanning my face. “No bubbling or wet sounds—lungs clear.” He eases me against the seat, his arm still braced behind me.
“Any tingling? Numbness in your hands or feet?”
I shake my head.
“That’s good. Means your spinal cord’s intact.”
His hand moves lower, pressing along my abdomen and flanks. “No swelling, rigidity, or rebound tenderness,” he murmurs. “No obvious internal bleeding.”
I blink at him. “What about you?”
“Left arm’s fucked. I can’t move it.”
“What else?” The words scrape out.
He exhales through his nose. “Left side’s lit up. Breathing’s tight, but I’m managing.”
My gaze drops to the bruises blooming across his torso—deep and ugly beneath torn fabric.
He blinks hard, like he’s trying to push back the fog. “Vision’s off. Probably a concussion.”
He shifts, flinching when his leg doesn’t follow. The tension in his body spikes—controlled, but clear.
“What’s wrong with your leg?”
“Nerve’s misfiring. I can move, but it won’t hold long.” His voice is taught. “I’ll deal.”
I stare at him. He’s pale, barely upright, but somehow focused. “Jax—”
He cuts me off with a look. Steady. Unyielding.
“I said I’ll deal.”
A beat of silence stretches. My eyes flick past him to the wreckage outside. “Well… pretty sure your truck’s totaled.”
“I don’t care about the damn truck, Melina. It can be replaced. You can’t.”
He palms the handle, but it’s stuck. “I need to check on the other driver,” he growls, shoving at the twisted frame. “They had to be doing thirty, maybe forty over. If they’re not dead already, they’re about to be.”
The door doesn’t budge.
The truck’s Bluetooth pings. brOOKS—AEGIS flashes on the screen. Jax taps the dash. “Mercer.”
“We got the crash alert. Status?”
“Two injured. Melina’s conscious—head lac, cracked ribs, deep forearm laceration. Bleeding’s controlled. No obvious internal.”
“And you?”
“Left arm’s down. Shoulder’s out or fractured. Concussion. Vision’s fucked. Leg’s unstable.”
“Airway, bleeding, breathing?” Brooks slips into medic mode.
“Clear. Controlled. Shallow but steady. I’m mobile.”
“Copy. EMS and PD en route. Stay alert. You think this was a hit?”
His eyes snap to the other vehicle just as the driver claws out of the wreckage, bloodied and stumbling. Jax’s whole body freezes as recognition hits.
My blood turns to ice. I follow his stare and stop cold. It’s him.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “Jax… that’s Darren.”
Panic slams into me. My stomach lurches, pulse hammering.