Chapter 16 Danae #2
A man near the hallway lifts his gun slightly, just enough to remind me what reality we’re in. The president steps closer until he’s right in front of me. He squats down so our faces are level. His eyes are cold, but there’s something almost pleased in them.
“You’re gonna do it,” he instructs. “You’re gonna keep our brother alive if you want to live to fuck your Hellion again.”
The sentence is obscene in his mouth, and it makes my skin crawl. My cheeks burn with humiliation and rage. “I’m not—” My voice cracks. I force it back together. “I’m not your tool.”
His smile disappears. “Wrong answer.”
He reaches out and grips my chin, not hard enough to bruise but hard enough that I feel the strength in his fingers. “Otherwise,” he says, voice flat now, “I’ll put the bullet in you myself and find someone else.”
My breath catches. My whole body goes cold, like fear is draining the heat out of me.
I stare at him, trying to keep my eyes steady, trying not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.
Think smart.
Stay alive.
What can I do?
I can’t overpower seven men.
I can’t run blind through an unfamiliar house with my hands tied.
I can’t scream—no one would hear, and even if they did, these men would be gone before help arrived.
All I can do is buy time.
All I can do is keep them talking, keep them focused on their injured “brother,” and keep my grandfather alive long enough for something.
For Miles.
For the universe.
For a crack in their plan.
“I can help,” I state slowly.
The president’s eyes narrow, like he doesn’t trust the shift.
“I can help stabilize him,” I add quickly. “I can control bleeding, monitor vitals, prevent shock. But if you want him alive, I need supplies. Sterile supplies. Antibiotics. Pain control. Clean water. Light. Someone to assist.”
The men murmur.
One of them says, “We got a kit.”
Another laughs. “Kit ain’t gonna cut it, dumbass.”
The president stands, looking down at me like he’s weighing whether I’m trying to play him.
“You try to run,” he states, “I’ll FaceTime your granddad while I pull the trigger.”
My stomach flips. “I’m not trying to run,” I share, and I hate that I have to sound reasonable to a man holding my life like a coin he can flick away. “I’m trying to keep your brother alive. If you want that, you need to let me work.”
He stares at me a long moment, then jerks his chin toward the hallway.
“Untie her,” he orders.
Hands grab my shoulders and haul me to my feet. The chair scrapes. Someone cuts the zip ties with a knife, and the sudden release makes my arms tingle painfully as blood rushes back.
I flex my wrists, rubbing the angry red grooves.
“Hands in front,” the president says. “And you keep them where I can see them.”
A man produces another set of zip ties. They bind my wrists again, but this time in front of me, tighter than necessary. My fingers ache.
“Move,” someone says, shoving me toward the hallway.
I stumble, catching myself on the wall. The house smells worse back here—stale air, old smoke, something metallic like blood.
We pass closed doors. A bathroom with a cracked mirror. A laundry room with piles of clothes. The normal details make it more horrifying. Like evil can live in regular wallpaper and cheap carpet.
At the end of the hall, a door opens and a wave of heat hits me.
A bedroom.
But not a bedroom you sleep in.
The bed is shoved against the wall. A tarp is spread across the floor. A standing lamp is angled like a spotlight. And on a chair—an actual wooden chair pulled from a kitchen set—there is a man slumped forward, shirtless, skin slick with sweat.
Blood stains his side.
Dark.
Sticky.
My nursing brain kicks in whether I want it to or not. It’s a reflex. A switch that flips. Assessment mode.
He’s conscious—barely. His head lolls. His breathing is fast, shallow. His lips are pale. His eyes flicker up at me, glassy.
Gunshot wound. Side or lower abdomen. I can’t tell yet.
Someone behind me says, “That’s him.”
Brother.
The one I’m supposed to save. My stomach rolls. “Why didn’t you take him in?” I demand before I can stop myself. “He could bleed out.”
A man laughs. “That’s why you’re here.”
The president steps into the doorway behind me, filling it like a shadow. “He can’t go in,” he repeats, impatient. “You fix him.”
I force myself closer, swallowing down the terror. I can’t help Grandpa if I panic now. I can’t help myself if I refuse outright. I can only do what I know how to do—keep someone alive with the tools I have.
“Lay him back,” I state sharply. “I need to see the wound.”
No one moves.
I look at the president. “If you want him alive, you need to let me work,” I repeat. “Now.”
His eyes harden, but he nods once. Two men step forward and haul the injured man upright. He groans, the sound wet and ugly, and my skin crawls with sympathy I don’t want to feel.
“Don’t,” the man cries out. “Don’t lay me down. It hurts.”
“Gotta have space to work, you can’t be sitting upright.” I explain frustrated because this man needs serious medical attention.
They prop him back against the chair before someone else appears with a pillow and hands it to me as they then move to lay the victim on the tarps, stretching him out.
“For your knees,” the new man explains about bringing me the pillow.
I kneel in front of the man bleeding, careful with my bound wrists, and lean in.
The wound is on his right side, just above the hip. Entry wound small. Blood soaked through a makeshift bandage—an old towel, wrapped tight and already saturated. There’s swelling. Bruising. The skin around it is hot.
He shivers.
Shock is setting in.
My mind races. How long ago was he wounded? How much blood lost? Where did the bullet travel?
I can’t palpate properly with my hands tied together like this. Is there internal bleeding?
“I need my hands free,” I state.
The president’s voice comes from behind me. “No.”
I shut my eyes for half a second, fighting the rage rising in my throat.
“You want him alive,” I state slowly, opening my eyes again.
“Or you want to punish me? In order for him to live I need the freedom to do my best job. In order for my grandfather to live and me to live you made it very clear he has to live. So let’s stop the games, give me my hands free so I can fix your friend.
Are you going to be the reason he dies now? ”
That’s a dangerous question. The room goes still. I feel the weight of guns without seeing them.
The president steps closer until I can sense him right behind me. He leans down.
“You’re real brave,” he murmurs near my ear. “Too bad I don’t like sloppy seconds from a Hellion. That challenge you got could be fun in bed. Bet that pussy is tight like a vice grip.”
My breath catches. My eyes sting with unshed tears.
I swallow the emotion back and keep my voice as clinical as I can.
“I need my bag. I need to check his pulse, his breathing, his cognitive status. I need to apply pressure properly, clean the wound, assess for exit. I need to know if he’s bleeding internally.
If he’s got abdominal rigidity, if he’s losing blood into his cavity, he needs a surgeon. He needs antibiotics, pain meds.”
A man scoffs. “She talkin’ like she a damn doctor.”
“I’m talking like someone who doesn’t want him dead on your floor,” I snap, surprising myself with the sharpness.
The injured man coughs, his eyes fluttering. “Water,” he rasps.
Realistically we would withhold food and liquid prepping him for surgery. But I’m clearly not in a normal situation. So fuck it, he wants water, let him have it. I glance around. “Do you have water?”
One of the men tosses a bottle onto the bed. It bounces and rolls.
I pick it up with my bound hands, twist the cap with effort, and bring it to the injured man’s mouth. He drinks too fast, choking.
“Slow,” I instruct automatically, steadying him. “Slow. You’ll aspirate. Can’t breathe and swallow at the same time. ”
The word makes my stomach twist because it reminds me of Grandpa, of aspiration pneumonia, of lungs filling with fluid. I am full of helplessness. I set the bottle aside and look up at the president again.
“You want me to remove a bullet,” I begin. “With what? A pocketknife? A pair of pliers? That’s how you get infection. That’s how you kill him.”
The men shift, uneasy now. They don’t like hearing the possibility that their plan might fail. The president’s jaw works.
“What do you need?” he asks, clipped.
“My bag from my car. Sterile gloves,” I rattle off immediately. “Gauze. Clean towels. Alcohol. Antiseptic. Suture kit. Local anesthetic if you have it. Antibiotics. A clean surface. Light. Iodine. Saline solution.”
“Light, you got it,” someone mutters. “Got a kit with the gloves. Have her bag from the trunk.”
I ignore it. “And I need my hands free.”
The president pauses, then gives a sharp nod to one of his men. “Do it,” he commands.
Relief is immediate and sickening as the stranger approaches. A knife flashes. The zip ties fall away.
My wrists throb as I rub them again, flexing my fingers. I feel like I just got handed oxygen after drowning, and it makes me hate myself a little.
Because I’m cooperating.
Because I’m alive.
Because Grandpa is still alive somewhere, maybe, as long as I play along.
I stand, rolling my shoulders, forcing steadiness into my spine.
“Get me what I asked for,” I take control, voice firm. “And tell me how long ago he was shot.”
One man answers, “Couple hours.”
My stomach drops. A couple hours is a lifetime for bleeding.
“Who shot him?” I ask, and I don’t know why I ask except that my mind is trying to map the war around me.
The president’s eyes glint. “That ain’t your business.”
Of course. I nod once, filing it away. Don’t ask about their world. Ask about the wound. “How much did he bleed?” I ask, leaning closer to the injured man, checking his pulse at the wrist. It’s fast. Thready. Not good. He’s hot to the touch and clammy at the same time.