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Brandon had nodded in response before Beckner departed, his boots echoing down the empty corridor. Now, in the wake of her boss’s visit, Roseline found herself wishing Beckner was still here, offering his steadying, authoritative presence. She had always respected Marcus Lavelle’s former partner, even if he was stingy with praise and beyond demanding. Perhaps she could have benefited from heeding his advice about waiting for backup today. If she’d restrained her desperation to rescue Callan from Marcus’s clutches, maybe Callan wouldn’t be fighting for his life right now.
Roseline jerked ramrod straight in her chair as the waiting room doors swung open. Beside her, Brandon bolted halfway out of his seat, knuckles white from gripping the plastic armrests.
A surgeon in dark blue scrubs entered, his expression unreadable behind his surgical mask. Heart pounding, Roseline desperately searched the man’s tired eyes for some hope. This was the moment she had been dreading for endless agonizing hours—the news that would either save her from the abyss of grief threatening to swallow her whole or cast her into that dark chasm forever.
The surgeon’s penetrating gaze moved between Roseline and Brandon’s pale, rigid faces. With a weary sigh, he lowered his mask, revealing a few days’ stubble on his chin. The heavy bags under his eyes told Roseline this man had been battling death right alongside Callan.
“Your partner made it through surgery,” he announced, voice strained by exhaustion. “We were able to remove the bullet fragments and stop the internal bleeding caused by the close-range shot.”
A shuddering breath escaped Roseline’s lips as she swayed unsteadily. Brandon reached out to grasp her shoulder, steadying himself as much as her. She could see the sheen of tears in his eyes.
“Thank God,” Brandon choked out. “That stubborn bastard keeps cheating death.”
A fleeting smile passed over the surgeon’s face before his solemn expression returned. “I won’t lie to you; his condition is still critical. The next twenty-four hours will be crucial. We had to resuscitate him twice on the table.” The surgeon paused, holding Roseline’s gaze. “But your partner has tremendous fight left in him. As long as complications don’t develop, I believe he stands a good chance of pulling through.”
Roseline pressed a hand to her quivering lips, almost dizzy with relief. Callan was still hovering at death’s door, but he was fighting to make his way back. She should have known this courageous, loyal man would not abandon her so easily.
Swallowing hard past the lump in her throat, Roseline found her voice. “When can I see him?” she asked urgently. She needed to sit by Callan’s side, to hold his hand so he knew she was there waiting faithfully for him. “I need to see him.”
The surgeon gave her a gentle pat. “Soon. We’re getting him settled in the Surgical ICU. I know you’re anxious, but try to get some rest yourself tonight.” He glanced between Roseline and Brandon’s haggard faces, his tone softening. “Your partner’s in good hands. My team will take excellent care of him.”
With a final reassuring nod, the surgeon turned and pushed wearily through the doors, off to save more lives. In his absence, the sterile waiting room felt cavernous.
Roseline turned to Brandon, seeing her own bone-deep exhaustion and emotional overwhelm mirrored in his reddened eyes. Without a word, she stepped forward and embraced him. Brandon clung to her just as fiercely, the truth unspoken but profoundly felt between them—that Callan tethered them both to this world, and without him, they would be irrevocably lost.
Pulling apart, Brandon scrubbed a hand roughly over his face. “I should radio Beckner, let him know…” His voice broke off, too shaky with adrenaline come-down and unspeakable gratitude.
Roseline just nodded, flashing a wobbly smile. “I’ll wait for you,” she said. She would sit here steadfastly, thoughts consumed with Callan fighting for his life just rooms away until she could be reunited with him once again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Callan drifted up from the void of unconsciousness, his mind foggy and his body leaden. Even before he opened his eyes, the harsh antiseptic smell and steady beeping of monitors signaled that he was in the hospital. Finally, Callan tentatively cracked open his eyelids, squinting against the glare of stark white walls and ceiling tiles.
As his vision adjusted to the bright fluorescents overhead, details of the room came into focus—the IV beside his bed, the beige privacy curtain, the wall-mounted blood pressure machine. And there in the vinyl recliner next to him was the sight that oriented Callan and brought a wave of relief flooding through his battered and painful body—Roseline, asleep with her head lolling to the side.
Even exhausted as she obviously was, her beauty took Callan’s breath away. Her cascade of pale curls was disheveled, and her makeup worn away after the harrowing ordeal they had endured, yet she was still the most exquisite woman Callan had ever laid eyes on. Her hand rested over his, delicate fingers curled around his larger palm. The warmth of her touch soothed away the lingering disorientation and panic that clung to Callan’s mind after the confrontation with Marcus Lavelle.
Gingerly, Callan shifted his position in an attempt to sit up a little higher on the inclined hospital bed. But the movement pulled at the bandages covering his side, igniting a flare of pain from the gunshot wound he had sustained. Callan couldn’t hold back a low groan through gritted teeth.
At the pained sound, Roseline’s eyes instantly fluttered open. She jumped to her feet and leaned forward, concern furrowing her brow as her gaze met Callan’s. Her voice was hoarse with exhaustion when she spoke but warm with affection. “You’re awake. Oh, thank God. How are you feeling, Callan?”
Callan tried to reply but only managed a dry whisper from his parched throat. Giving her hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze, he croaked, “I’ve felt better… but I’m alive thanks to you, Roseline.”
She pressed her forehead to his before straightening.
Though it hurt to move, Callan reached up to caress Roseline’s cheek, offering her a weak but grateful smile.
Tears welled up in Roseline’s eyes as she recounted for Callan those agonizing moments after he’d been shot. “It was like time slowed down,” she began haltingly. “One second, you were shielding me, and the next, you were on the ground bleeding.”
She told him how crimson stained the cold concrete around him as the bullet tore through flesh and muscle. “I rushed over, but there was so much blood, it just kept pouring out between my fingers no matter how hard I pressed.” Her voice broke on a sob. “You were gasping, going into shock. I’ve never felt more helpless in my life.”
Guilt lanced through Callan at forcing her to endure such trauma. Gently grasping her hand, he said, “I’m so sorry you went through that, my Rose. I never wanted you to witness something so horrific.”
She shook her head fiercely. “Don’t apologize for saving my life, Callan. Watching you collapse, not knowing if you’d…” A tear escaped down her cheek. “Those minutes felt endless.”
When she faltered, overcome, Callan squeezed her hand tighter. “But I’m still here thanks to you,” he affirmed. “I know it was agony, but you stayed so strong, Roseline.”
She managed a shaky smile, swiping at her tears. “I had to be strong so you could come back to me. I couldn’t imagine life without you in it, Callan.”
