Wyatt shrugged.
Sarah sniffed. “Stubborn idiot.”
She pulled up a chair.
“I’ll need statements from both of you,” she said, professional again. “But it can wait until Wyatt’s hand is dealt with.” She glanced at him. “Which is going to be soon.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. Your hand looks like a boxing glove.” She pressed her lips into a thin line. “Akilov is in surgery. He’s cuffed to the operating table with two armed guards scrubbed in. His team is in custody or in the morgue.”
Wyatt grunted.
“I think you can take five minutes to get your hand seen to. Jen is safe.” Sarah pinned her brother with a stare.
Matter-of-fact, but he didn’t move.
“Akilov’s not going anywhere, Wyatt.” Sarah stood and looked at her brother with the expression of a woman who had exhausted her professional patience approximately three minutes ago. “Get your hand looked at, or I’m calling Mom.”
Wyatt finally pushed to his feet and hesitated as if stepping away from Jen required actual effort.
Caleb snorted. “Man survives a tactical assault, but the threat of his mother gets him moving.”
Wyatt cuffed him lightly on the ear as he limped past.
Jen smiled.
It hurt.
She didn’t care.
Sophie and Ty arrived minutes later, as if Sarah’s threat had summoned them from the ether. Ty came through the curtain first. His gaze found Jen, and something fierce and protective crossed his face—the same expression she’d seen on his son. “You’re okay?”
“I’m okay.”
He nodded once. “Where’s Wyatt?”
“Getting his hand sorted,” Caleb said. “Finally.”
“I’ll go check on him.” Ty kissed Sophie on the forehead and left to find his son.
Sophie sat on the edge of the bed. She smoothed Jen’s hair back from her forehead gently, the way you touch something precious that’s been hurt. “Oh, sweetheart.”
Jen pressed her lips together hard and breathed through her nose so she wouldn’t fall apart. Sophie just sat there, holding her bandaged hand, rubbing her thumb over the gauze, letting the silence do what words couldn’t.
Another hour passedbefore Wyatt returned. By then everyone else had gone, and the hospital had settled back into its late-night rhythm.
The curtain rattled.
Her breath caught.
The adrenaline faded. What she felt for him didn’t.
His hand was splinted and wrapped, white bandaging running from his knuckles to his forearm, the splint holding his fingers rigid.
His face was gray. Dried blood crusted his shirt, and a fresh bruise was darkening along his jaw.
The mattress dipped under his weight. There was a tremor in his good hand, exhaustion carved into his face, but his eyes still roamed over her, even now. Even here. Even with the danger cuffed to a hospital bed three floors above them.
