Chapter 55 Parker
PARKER
The hospital in Mooresville smells like antiseptic and despair, a combination I’ve become intimately familiar with over the past four days. Four days of watching monitors, counting heartbeats, and measuring breaths. Four days of waiting for Silas to open his eyes.
Four days of wondering if he ever will.
The room is dim, just the soft glow of medical equipment and the city lights filtering through the window. It’s late—past midnight, edging into that dead zone where the world feels suspended between one day and the next.
On the couch against the far wall, my boys are asleep.
Liam tucked against Jace’s chest, his serious little face finally relaxed in sleep, one hand clutching Jace’s shirt like he’s afraid to let go.
Noah curled up in Cal’s lap, his lighter hair a mess against Cal’s shoulder, mouth slightly open in that way that makes him look younger than five.
Jace and Cal are awake, though barely. Cal’s eyes are half-closed, his hand resting on Noah’s back in a protective gesture that’s become automatic over the past few days. Jace is staring at nothing, that thousand-yard stare he gets when his mind is running tactical scenarios he can’t control.
Neither of them has left this room except to shower and change. Neither of them will until Silas wakes up.
If he wakes up.
No. When. When he wakes up.
I can’t let myself think the alternative.
Charles and Sienna have been here too, rotating shifts, bringing food no one eats and coffee that goes cold.
Marcus and the team leads stopped by this morning to pay respects like Silas is already dead, and I wanted to scream at them to get out, to take their grief somewhere else because he’s not gone, he’s not, he’s right here—
But I didn’t scream. Just nodded and accepted their condolences like a widow at a wake.
The transfer from Asheville to the jet was a blur.
I rode with him, held his hand while the medics worked, watched his chest rise and fall with mechanical precision because the ventilator was doing the breathing for him.
Watched them pump blood and fluids and God knows what else into his veins, trying to keep him alive.
Two gunshot wounds. One to the upper right chest that miraculously missed his lung by centimeters. One to the lower left that did less damage than it should have, but still tore through muscle and nicked his spleen.
Blood loss. Trauma. Shock.
The doctors said he was lucky.
Lucky.
I wanted to ask them what the fuck they thought luck looked like, because this—Silas unconscious and broken, hooked up to machines that beep and whir and keep him tethered to life—this doesn’t feel lucky.
This feels like punishment.
The boys wanted to see him immediately when Charles brought them this morning. Begged, actually, with that desperate five-year-old logic that says if they can just see Uncle Silas, if they can just talk to him, he’ll be okay.
I didn’t have the strength to tell them no. Didn’t have the strength to send them back to the house with Charles and Sienna, where they’d be comfortable and safe and not sitting in a hospital room watching someone they love fight for his life.
They wouldn’t have gone anyway.
They love him. It’s that simple and that complicated. They’ve known him for barely two months, but Silas has become essential to them in the way that only children can make someone essential—completely, absolutely, without reservation.
Liam asked if Uncle Silas was going to die. Asked it with that serious face he makes when he’s trying to be brave, trying to be the big brother even though he’s only older by seven minutes.
I told him no. Told him Uncle Silas is strong, that he’s fought through worse, that he’s going to wake up and be fine.
I don’t know if I believe it.
Noah wanted to know if it was his fault. If maybe Uncle Silas got hurt because of something he did, some cosmic five-year-old transgression that resulted in this.
I held him while he cried. Told him no, baby, no, this isn’t your fault, none of this is your fault.
But it’s mine.
I’m the one who insisted we go after him. I’m the one who couldn’t just let him go, couldn’t accept his sacrifice, couldn’t be practical and protect what we had instead of risking everything for one man.
I’m the one who found him bleeding out on that hallway floor and left Aria dead beside him.
I’m the one who held pressure on wounds that wouldn’t stop bleeding while Jace screamed for Cal to bring the med kit, while Charles coordinated extraction, while Marcus and the team cleared the rest of the building.
I’m the one who sobbed his name over and over like repetition could keep him alive.
I’m the one who watched his eyes go unfocused and empty, watched him stop fighting, watched him let go.
I’m the one who refused to let him.
The boys came in this morning with drawings. Pictures of motorcycles with elaborate modifications that only five-year-olds could dream up—flame decals and rocket boosters and wings, because why shouldn’t motorcycles fly?
They told Silas all about Martha’s Vineyard. About Maria’s estate, the beach, and the boats. About the ice cream they ate and the games they played. They narrated their entire adventure like he could hear them, like their voices could pull him back from wherever he’s gone.
Maybe they can.
Maybe that’s why I haven’t sent them home, even though they should be in their own beds, even though this is too much for children to witness.
Or maybe I’m just selfish. Maybe I need them here as much as they need to be here. Need their presence to remind me what we’re fighting for. Need their voices to fill the silence that threatens to swallow me whole.
I’m sitting in the chair I’ve claimed as mine, pulled up close to Silas’s bedside. Close enough that I can hold his hand, can feel the warmth of his skin even though he’s not really here.
My head is down on the bed beside our joined hands, exhaustion pulling at me like an undertow. I haven’t really slept since the rescue. Can’t. Every time I close my eyes I see him on that floor, see the blood, see the light leaving his eyes.
The monitors beep their steady rhythm. Heartbeat. Blood pressure. Oxygen levels. All stable. All normal.
All of it is meaningless if he doesn’t wake up.
“Please,” I whisper into the blanket, so quiet that even Jace and Cal won’t hear. “Please come back to me. The boys need you. I need you. We all need you, Silas. Please.”
Nothing.
Just the beep of monitors and the soft sound of breathing—mine, the boys’, Cal’s slight wheeze from the broken rib he won’t admit is still bothering him.
I’m so tired. Tired of waiting. Tired of hoping. Tired of—
His fingers squeeze around mine.
It’s small. Barely there. But I feel it.
My head snaps up so fast my neck cracks. I stare at our joined hands, waiting, hoping I didn’t imagine it—
There. Again. Stronger this time. A definite squeeze.
“Silas?” My voice comes out rough, broken. “Silas, can you hear me?”
His eyelids flutter. Once. Twice. Then they open—just slightly, just enough for me to see a sliver of storm-gray.
“Silas.” His name is a prayer, a plea, a promise all at once.
His eyes focus on me, and even though they’re hazy with pain and medication, I can see him in there. Can see recognition. Can see Silas.
His lips move. It takes him two tries to get the words out, his voice so raspy it’s barely recognizable.
“You just couldn’t stay away, could you, firefly?”
The sob that tears out of me is ugly and loud and completely involuntary. I’m laughing and crying at the same time, my free hand covering my mouth, trying to keep it together and failing spectacularly.
“You asshole,” I manage through the tears. “You absolute asshole. You’ve been unconscious for four days, and that’s the first thing you say to me?”
His mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile—he’s too weak for that, too drugged, too broken—but it’s close enough.
“Missed you, too,” he rasps.
Behind me, I hear movement. Jace and Cal are awake, are moving, but I can’t look away from Silas. Can’t stop staring at his eyes, at the proof that he’s here, that he came back.
“The boys,” I say, because he needs to know. “They’re here. They’ve been here all day. They drew you pictures. Told you all about Martha’s Vineyard. They—”
“They okay?” His voice is getting stronger, clearer, even though I can see the effort it costs him.
“They’re perfect. They’re right here. They’re—” I turn slightly, and Jace is already there, still holding a sleeping Liam, careful not to jostle him awake.
Cal’s right behind him with Noah, who’s starting to stir from all the commotion.
“Silas.” Jace’s voice is rough with emotion he’s not bothering to hide. “Welcome back, brother.”
“Couldn’t leave you assholes to handle everything,” Silas says, and his eyes track to the boys. Something in his expression softens. Breaks open. “They’re really okay?”
“They’re fine,” Cal says quietly. “Worried about you. We all were.”
Noah’s eyes open, bleary and confused. He blinks a few times, processing, then his gaze lands on Silas.
“Uncle Silas?” His voice is small, uncertain. “You’re awake?”
“Yeah, bud,” Silas manages. “I’m awake.”
That’s all it takes. Noah scrambles out of Cal’s arms, and before anyone can stop him, he’s climbing onto the bed, careful of the wires and tubes, settling himself against Silas’s uninjured side.
“You were sleeping for so long,” Noah says, his voice thick with tears he’s trying not to shed. “I thought—I thought maybe—”
“I’m okay,” Silas says, and his arm comes up, wraps around Noah despite the obvious pain it causes. “I’m okay, Noah. I promise.”
Liam’s awake now, too, squirming out of Jace’s hold. He’s more reserved than his brother, standing at the edge of the bed, his serious eyes taking in all the medical equipment, the bandages, the way Silas is clearly hurt.
“Does it hurt bad?” Liam asks quietly.
“Yeah,” Silas says, because he’s never lied to them. “But I’ve had worse.”
“Are you going to get better?”
“Yeah, kid. I’m going to get better.”
Liam nods, satisfied with this answer in a way that only a five-year-old can be satisfied. Then he climbs up on the other side of the bed, mirrors his brother’s position against Silas’s other side.
And Silas—broken, bleeding, barely conscious—wraps his other arm around Liam and holds both boys like they’re the only things keeping him tethered to this world.
Maybe they are.
I’m crying again, can’t seem to stop, but these are different tears. Relief. Joy. Gratitude.
He’s alive.
He’s awake.
He’s here.
Silas’s eyes find mine over the boys’ heads, and the look in them is so intense it steals my breath.
“You came for me,” he says, and it’s not a question.
“Of course I did, you idiot,” I say through my tears. “Did you really think I wouldn’t?”
“I told you to stay safe. To protect the boys.”
“And I told you I was coming back for you. I meant it.”
Something in his expression shifts. Softens. “Parker—”
“Don’t.” I stand up, move to the edge of the bed where I can touch his face, careful of the oxygen cannula, the monitors. “Don’t you dare apologize for what happened. Don’t you dare try to take responsibility for Aria’s insanity. You’re alive. You’re here. That’s all that matters.”
“The boys,” he starts again.
“Are fine. Are perfect. Are right where they need to be.” I lean down and press my forehead to his carefully. “We’re all right where we need to be.”
His hand comes up, tangles in my hair, holds me there.
“I love you,” he whispers. “In case I didn’t say it enough before.”
“You didn’t,” I whisper back. “So you’re going to have to spend the rest of your life making up for it.”
“Deal.”
Behind us, Jace clears his throat. “We should probably get a doctor. Let them know he’s awake.”
“In a minute,” Cal says quietly. “Let them have this.”
So we stay like that. Me and Silas and our boys all tangled together on a hospital bed, Jace and Cal standing guard like they always do, and for the first time in four days, I let myself breathe.
He’s alive.
We’re together.
Everything else, we’ll figure out.