Chapter 12 Luka
LUKA
The hospital reeks of antiseptics, endings, and false hope.
The walls hum with the faint vibration of alarms and the low murmur of voices trying not to break.
The overhead lights are too bright, bleaching everything into a sterile, lifeless state.
Every surface gleams with that chemical sheen that makes me want to turn around and walk straight back out into the mountain air, where things still smell real.
Sage is beside me, but she's already gone, pulled into a world where the only thing that matters is the pale, fragile girl lying in the bed ahead of us. Hope Bellamy, her little sister. The reason Sage fights so hard. The reason she'll endure anything, even me.
The doctor and nurses move around Hope in a blur of white and motion, the machines beside her beeping in uneven rhythms. Her skin is a ghostly shade of ivory, dark-blonde hair tangled on the pillow, lashes trembling, but her eyes closed.
A nurse murmurs something about oxygen levels.
Another adjusts the IV line. The equipment surrounding the bed creates a fortress of medical intervention, tubes and wires connecting her fragile body to machines that breathe and monitor for her.
Sage presses forward, refusing to stay back when they ask her to give space. Her voice is soft, but every word shakes. “It's okay, Hope. I'm right here. You're safe. Do you hear me? You're safe.”
Her hand finds Hope's, her fingers tracing the pale skin where a needle disappears beneath tape.
There's desperation in the movement, like she's trying to pull her sister back through sheer force of love.
Her thumb makes small circles on Hope's wrist, and I can see her counting the pulse beneath her touch, needing that physical proof of life.
I stand there, useless in a room full of motion, every instinct torn between walking out and anchoring her before she falls apart.
I've seen blood, fire, and bodies that never breathed again.
I've ordered executions, watched men beg for mercy I wouldn't grant, and stood over graves while snow fell silent on fresh earth.
But none of that looked like this. None of it hit like watching Sage crumble as she whispers her sister's name repeatedly, hoping her voice alone will be enough to make her stay.
I don't belong here. My presence is poison in a place built for healing.
The nurses glance at me sideways, probably wondering what a man who looks cut from marble and menace is doing in their sterile sanctuary.
Yet I can't make myself leave. My feet won't move toward the door, no matter how much my brain screams that I should disappear before I contaminate this moment further.
The doctor finally steps back. The sharp line of noise from the heart monitor steadies into a slower, measured rhythm.
Someone exhales in relief. “She's stable for now,” the doctor announces, his voice the practiced calm they teach in medical school.
“We'll keep her for observation, but the seizure is under control. Her vitals are improving.”
Sage nods numbly. “Stable,” she repeats softly, as if declaring the word will make it truer. Her shoulders are still rigid, her body locked in that terrible tension that comes from fearing the world will break again the moment she lets herself breathe.
The nurses finish their checks, adjust the blanket, and slip out one by one.
The doctor gives Sage's shoulder a gentle squeeze before following them out.
When the door closes with a soft click, the silence swells until it hums in my ears.
The machine's quiet pulse is the only sound left, a metronome marking time in a space where everything else has gone still.
Sage stays bent over her sister, brushing the hair back from her damp forehead.
Her tears fall onto Hope's hand, and she wipes them away quickly, like she's afraid to let her see.
Even unconscious and safe, Sage won't let her sister witness her fear.
She's always the strong one, the protector, even when she's breaking apart inside.
I watch her from a few feet away, my back against the far wall where the shadows gather.
She looks nothing like the woman who faced me with fire in her eyes at Bean & Bloom.
Her honey-blonde hair has come loose from its tie, stray strands sticking to her damp cheeks.
Her lips are trembling, though she presses them together to hide it.
The freckles across her nose stand out against her pale skin, and there are dark circles under her eyes that tell me she hasn't slept properly in days.
But even broken, she's beautiful. Maybe more so now when I can see every raw edge of her heart exposed.
This fierce, unbreakable love she has for her sister is something pure in a world I've spent my entire life making darker.
Something twists in my chest, sudden and unfamiliar. It's not the dull ache of old wounds or the cold calculation I'm used to. This is different. It’s warmer and far more dangerous.
She whispers something to Hope, her voice cracking. I can't make out all of it, but I catch the end. “…can't lose you too.”
Her words pull at the memory of my mother's voice, soft but fierce in its final months, telling me to take care of my siblings.
Promising she'd fight until she couldn't. She did fight.
And when she was gone, a part of me froze and never thawed.
The part that knew how to feel things beyond anger and control got buried with her, six feet under Russian soil, while my father watched with dry eyes and a clenched jaw.
When I stay silent, her mouth trembles. “She didn't deserve this.”
“No,” I answer, the words rough in my throat. “She didn't.”
Her jaw tightens, and she glares at me as if I've just confirmed the worst thing she already believes. “You know who did? You.”
Her words hit a nerve I didn’t know I still had. I inhale slowly to stop the reflexive anger from rising. My hands curl into fists at my sides, then relax. Control. Always control.
“Careful, Sage.”
“Careful?” Her laugh is soft and broken. “My café burned to the ground. My sister is unconscious. My life's gone. My freedom’s gone. You came into my world and ruined it. Tell me why I should be careful.”
“I didn't ruin it.”
She steps closer, her voice rising with each word.
“You brought it down around me. You showed up with your secrets, your guns, and your cold little empire, and everything that mattered turned to ash. Everything I built, everything my mother left me is gone because you decided I was your problem to solve.”
“You think I wanted this?”
“I think you decided I was convenient,” she snaps, her tears flowing freely now. “Someone you could use and control. A pawn in whatever game you're playing with Ray Bellamy.”
The word control finds its mark before I can deflect it. My grip on patience slips. “I've kept you alive,” I growl.
“And look where it got me!” she fires back, her voice breaking. “Here. Sitting in a hospital while my sister fights to survive because your world followed me home.”
She moves toward me, every step slow and certain.
Her tears glisten in the dim light, but her expression is fierce.
The combination of vulnerability and rage makes her dangerous in ways she doesn't understand.
“You've destroyed everything I had left. My café. My freedom. My life.” Her voice fractures on the last word. “You're poison.”
The word shatters whatever restraint I have left.
Before I can stop myself, I move. Two strides and my hands are on her shoulders.
Her body goes rigid beneath my touch, but she doesn't pull away.
My voice is lower and rougher than I mean it to be.
“You think you understand what poison is?
You have no idea what I've kept from touching you.”
Her lips part in shock, her breath shallow, and her eyes glinting with fear and fury. For a moment, we're frozen there, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off her skin. “You're hurting me.”
I loosen my grip instantly, but don't let go. “No,” I murmur. “I'm showing you what happens when you stop seeing the difference between a man and the monsters outside his reach.”
“Then what are you, Luka?” she whispers.
The answer dies somewhere in my throat. I don't know anymore. The lines blurred years ago, somewhere between the first time I pulled a trigger and the last time I looked in a mirror and recognized the reflection staring back.
I only know the pull toward her is stronger than my resolve.
I lean in, and before I can stop myself, I kiss her.
It's rough and messy. A clash of defiance and desperation.
Her mouth tastes of honey and black tea, and every sleepless night she's ever endured.
For one heartbeat, she resists, her body going still against mine, shocked into immobility.
Then her hands fist in my shirt and she kisses me back.
It's heat and ache and all the pain neither of us can name.
Her nails dig through the fabric, and she makes a sound in her throat that's half sob, half surrender.
When she shoves me away, we're both breathing like we've run a mile. Her chest heaves, and her eyes are wild. “Don't,” she chokes out. “Don't ever do that again.”
Her words barely hold together, and mine won't come at all. The taste of her lingers on my lips, the sound of her ragged breathing echoing in the hushed room.
“You think that fixes anything?” she demands, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as if she can erase what just happened.
“No,” I respond roughly. “But I don't regret it.”
“Of course you don't.” She stares at me, torn between hate and heartbreak. “You don't regret anything, do you? You just move through people like they're disposable. Like they’re figures on a board you never stop rearranging.”