Chapter 15
Fifteen
Liam stood in the middle of déjà vu.
The sounds hit him first—people rushing around, voices echoing off sterile walls, the squeak of gurneys on polished floors. Then the smell. Disinfectant mixed with despair, the same cocktail that had filled his nostrils in that Swiss hospital six months ago.
His stomach lurched.
Not again.
Bitter coffee burned his throat. How many cups now? Five? Six? Each one tasting more like liquid regret as he waited for someone in green scrubs to walk through those double doors and confirm his worst fears.
He should have gotten on that chopper with her. But there hadn’t been room—and he had a job to do, taking care of those teenagers and…
Yeah, he should have gotten on that chopper.
He tried to pray, but it felt like his prayers hit the ceiling and dropped back.
Liam pushed up from the plastic chair, boots squeaking against the polished floor as he paced the waiting room of UMC Trauma Center in the heart of Vegas.
Normally she would have been taken to a hospital in Phoenix, but due to a car pileup, they’d redirected the chopper here.
But as one of the top Level 1 trauma centers in the country, he couldn’t help but be glad she was here.
Eighteen hours ago, Nimue had been wrapped in his arms, both of them shivering in that cave. His biggest worry then had been the Bratva.
Turned out the canyon was more dangerous than the Russian mafia.
After the helicopter disappeared with Nimue, the crew had worked together to get the teenagers to safety. Meg and Noah had stayed behind to tend them while he had run with Teague back to the Rim offices to secure more transport.
Teague had handled the family phone calls while Eden worked with South Rim services to transport the kids.
And finally, Liam had gotten into his Bronco and driven like a man possessed. Four-and-a-half-hour drive in four, pushing the ancient engine past its limits.
Now he was wired and hungry and thrumming with residual adrenaline.
He dropped back into a chair, hands gripping his knees until his knuckles went white. Images tumbled through his mind on repeat—Nimue vanishing as the ledge crumbled, her listless body in the cave, those angry purple bruises across her ribs, the helicopter lifting her away.
Meg’s assurance that Nimue would be fine.
Lie. He’d seen the truth in her eyes.
When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned.
Really? Because he felt charred to ash right now.
Trapped in this fluorescent-lit room, all he could do was wait. It was close to six in the morning now, and each tick of the wall clock was another reminder of how close he’d come to losing her.
How close he still was.
He stood, started pacing again. Muscle memory from another hospital, another vigil.
Christiana.
The days after her death crashed over him—sleepless nights, guilt that sat on his chest like a boulder, grief that had nearly broken him completely. He’d run home to Chicago, thinking family could fix him. When that failed, he’d come here to rebuild as a ranger. Found purpose in protecting others.
Nimue’s injuries threatened to drag him back to that dark place.
And this time, he might never find his way back.
Christiana had been his friend. Important, but still just a friend.
Nimue? She was something else entirely. What, exactly, he couldn’t name yet. But she had a piece of him now—the piece that made his world make sense—and losing it might shatter him beyond repair.
When you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.
But they were sweeping over him. And if he lost her, he might drown in the undertow.
He collapsed into the chair, grabbed her pack from beside him. He wasn’t sure why he’d brought it. It had just felt right somehow. He’d laid out the contents to dry on the drive here, then bundled them back inside. Her clothes, her sketchbook, that gold bar that had started their last fight.
He couldn’t think about the Bratva. Not now.
A man pushing a squeaky supply cart glanced his way, and Liam’s muscles tensed. Every stranger could be a threat.
Oh brother. He was in a hospital. He had to relax. He eyed the security cameras on the ceiling. Surely he was safe here.
Focus.
He dug through the pack for her notebook. She’d tried showing him her drawings, but he’d been too consumed with anger about her secrets to really look. Too busy being hurt to see what she was trying to share.
How could he keep her safe if she kept things from him?
But that felt petty and selfish now.
He flipped through water-warped pages until he found a drawing of himself. Harsh lines, mysterious shadows. Good. Really good.
A few pages later—another sketch of him. Softer this time, more personal. But still that distance in the eyes, like she had been drawing him behind glass.
He kept flipping. His hands stilled.
Wow.
In the third drawing, she’d captured him in devastating detail.
He recognized the setting—back at the campground.
Raw emotion etched in pencil strokes—longing mixed with pain, loss tangled with self-recrimination.
The guy in this image was drowning. Punishing himself for something he couldn’t have prevented.
That guy was him.
For the first time, Noah’s words made sense. Certain things only God can heal.
He closed his eyes against the revelation.
He couldn’t lose her.
Footsteps approached. He looked up to see a petite, toned woman with short red hair and deep-green eyes walking toward him. She wore a pair of black cargo pants, Converse shoes, and a green T-shirt. “Are you Liam?”
He nodded, stood. Alert. Gripped the bag with one hand while eyeing the exit.
She extended her hand. “Emberly.”
“Nimue’s sister?” Some tension leaked from his shoulders.
She nodded and gestured to the man beside her. “This is Steinbeck Kingston.”
Steinbeck offered his hand. Solid grip, kind eyes. But yeah, he appeared ex-military with his strong build, his calculating eyes. Light-brown hair cropped short, a sort of don’t-mess-around aura.
Liam liked him.
“She’s still in surgery.” Liam’s throat felt raw. “Hours now. You might get more information than I have. Family and all.”
“She’s tough.” Emberly crossed her arms, her mouth tight. She glanced up at Steinbeck. “She’ll pull through.”
Steinbeck nodded.
The double doors swung open. A doctor in green scrubs approached, face tired but composed. “Family of Nimue…?”
Liam’s heart sped up, triple time.
“I’m her sister.” Emberly stepped forward.
He was the outsider here. The realization hit like cold water.
The doctor glanced at him, then lowered her voice. “Nimue made it through surgery. I’ll be honest—it was touch and go. We nearly lost her. Her heart stopped once, but we got her back. She’s weak, and the next few hours are critical, but she’s stable. One family member can see her.”
We nearly lost her. The words echoed in his skull.
Emberly squeezed Steinbeck’s hand, then followed the doctor down the hallway without looking back.
Nimue had almost died.
And it would’ve been his fault. He’d walked away from her, angry. She’d been coming after him when the ledge gave way.
Reckless people got other people killed.
Just like with Christiana.
“I’ll be outside,” he mumbled to Steinbeck, who nodded absently while texting rapid-fire on his phone.
In the parking lot, the morning sun was just peeking above the horizon.
He’d been hoping the night would’ve cooled things off.
But with Vegas’s elevation being six thousand feet lower than the North Rim, it was enough to make a big difference.
Even now the heat still radiated from the asphalt as if yesterday’s furnace was still burning.
Everything felt too warm. Too close. Too much.
He made it to his ’72 Bronco—parked crooked in his haste—and climbed inside. Familiar smells of old leather and dust should have grounded him.
Instead, memories flooded back. Nimue’s laugh. Her teasing. That perfect kiss in the cave. Her scream as she disappeared.
He’d failed her.
Just like he’d failed Christiana.
His hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles going white, all of it rushing through him. Then the dam burst.
His eyes burned, filled, his chest a fist, and as he bent his head to the steering wheel, he emitted a noise, almost a shout but it was lower—more primal. Something that scared him a little.
And then he didn’t care. His body started to shake, sobs ripping through him as the grief, the fury, the frustration roared out of him. He hadn’t cried like this since he was eight years old, but here, right now, he was a child again.
Unraveling in the parking lot of a hospital, knowing he’d screwed up.
And there was no way back.
His phone buzzed.
He wiped his eyes, fumbled for the device. Logan. Ten missed texts from the past twenty-four hours. Right—his brothers were supposed to be in town.
Latest message:
Logan
Luke and I are heading to the airport. Bummed we missed you. Honestly worried since we haven’t heard from you. Everything okay?
The text felt like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.
He started typing a reply, then deleted it. What could he say? The woman I love nearly died and it’s my fault and oh, by the way, we’re being hunted by the Russian mob?
He dropped the phone. The ache in his chest wouldn’t ease, and yes, he could admit it.
He loved Nimue.
Great.
He glanced back at the text. Logan had always been his anchor. The steady twin to his chaos. But he couldn’t leave Nimue. Not now.
He leaned back, staring at the Bronco’s worn ceiling. His sobs had subsided into shaky breaths.
He wanted to protect her. Be by her side.
But he couldn’t do that either. He wasn’t family. Wasn’t anything, really. Just some guy she’d met less than three weeks ago who’d helped her through the canyon.
A guy she hadn’t even trusted—not really.
Short, painful breaths made his chest tight.
He needed to get out of here.