Chapter Twenty #2
Eventually, the door opens. Ayla’s head is bleeding, her body limp, no longer conscious as Charles lifts her in his arms. Nathan hovers, a shadow behind him.
The last words I hear make me want to vomit: “Let’s go, my princess.
” As I watch them carry her out of the cabin, something inside me snaps—I scream, a raw, wounded animal sound, pain and fury exploding out of me into the empty house.
I slam my fists against the table, the desk, anything within reach, but it’s useless.
I promised her I wouldn’t let them take her.
I promised Dean and Zayn we could do this.
And now… I’ve failed them all. All I can do is sob, broken and helpless, and pray for the strength to put the pieces back together—because I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do next.
Once I begin to calm, I stand and stare at the useless security screens and technology around me, cursing myself for never learning what Dean could do so easily.
I’m good with tech and coding, but hacking cameras and files, and pulling footage from anywhere.
All that illegal shit. That was always Dean.
I’m helpless without him, and the weight of that hits me like a fist to the gut.
My hands shake as I pull out my phone and call Zayn, desperate for anything, anyone, but it goes straight to voicemail.
My fear is a living thing now, clawing at my insides, making it hard to breathe.
I can’t sit still. Panic and dread drive me to throw on a shirt and jacket, barely get my shoes on before I’m out the door.
I swing onto my bike, adrenaline drowning out any care for rules or safety, weaving through traffic with reckless abandon.
The whole ride is a blur of horns, rain, and the bone-deep terror that I might already be too late.
I barrel into the hospital, breathless, wild-eyed, searching until I find Zayn in the waiting room, his clothes still stained with Dean’s blood.
I can barely get the words out—“Is he…”—my voice cracking, the question unfinished because I can’t bear to say it.
Zayn looks up, his face ashen, his voice hollow and empty.
“They’re doing everything they can,” he says, but there’s no hope in it, just exhaustion and devastation.
I collapse next to him, fear and grief strangling me.
We sit in suffocating silence, the world reduced to the endless ticking of a hospital clock and the smell of antiseptic and blood.
Finally, Zayn’s voice breaks the quiet—“Ayla?”
I swallow hard, my voice barely above a whisper. “She’s gone. They took her.” I say, showing him the security cameras. Saying it out loud makes it real. The devastation is complete. There’s nothing left but the hollow ache of loss and the terror that we’ve lost everything that mattered.
We sit there in that waiting room for what feels like an eternity, every minute heavy with dread and hope, the antiseptic sting of the hospital burning in my nose.
Zayn is pale and silent, hands clenched in his lap, eyes never leaving the doors.
When a doctor finally appears and calls, “Zayn Hallow?” Zayn jerks upright, and I follow, my stomach in knots, bracing for the worst news imaginable.
The doctor’s voice is grave but steady: “Dean is stable, but his condition is critical. He’s suffered a severe traumatic brain injury—significant cerebral edema.
We’ve placed him in a medically induced coma to help reduce the intracranial pressure and protect his brain tissue while we monitor for further swelling.
He’s intubated and on a mechanical ventilator to protect his airway, and we’re monitoring his intracranial pressure continuously.
We’ve started him on IV mannitol and hypertonic saline to help decrease the swelling.
I want to warn you, the sight may be difficult. ”
“Take me. Now, please,” Zayn chokes out, desperation raw in his voice. I nearly lose it at the urgency in him.
We walk down the corridor to the ICU. When we enter, the sight is brutal: Dean lies motionless in the bed, his head wrapped in thick gauze, staples and stitches tracing a jagged line across his scalp.
There’s an external ventricular drain coming out of his skull, collecting excess fluid.
A ventilator tube is secured in his mouth, the machine cycling in a cold, steady rhythm, forcing air into his lungs.
IV lines snake from both arms, infusing medication and fluids.
His skin looks gray, almost translucent, and his body is limp beneath the web of wires and monitors that beep out his heart rate, oxygen saturation, and pressure inside his brain.
Zayn takes Dean’s hand, trembling, and lifts it to his lips.
His shoulders shake with silent grief, and I can barely watch.
The doctor’s voice is gentle but honest: “We’ll reevaluate his neurological status in the morning.
The next twenty-four to seventy-two hours are critical.
If the swelling increases or we see any signs of herniation, we may have to consider a decompressive craniectomy.
How long he’ll be like this depends on his response—sometimes it’s days, sometimes weeks or longer.
We’re doing everything we can to give him the best chance. ”
The words hang heavy in the sterile air.
“If you need anything, please use the call button,” the doctor says quietly, then slips out, leaving us alone.
Zayn and I sit in silence, staring at Dean, the world outside suspended, everything reduced to the raw, relentless hope that he’ll wake up.
For now, all we can do is wait—and pray.