That thought stays low and ugly in the back of my mind while I adjust my grip, angling the pressure more directly over where the blade must have gone in, trying to remember everything Iknow and forcing my hands to stay steady even though nothing else in me is.
“Lia,” Jackson says again, and his voice is so wrecked now that it barely sounds like him. “Sweetheart, come on. Open your eyes for me. Just look at me.”
Her head rolls faintly with the movement of the car.
No response.
Her lashes don’t even flicker.
“Keep her on her side a little more,” I say, and my voice comes out tighter than I mean it to, but at least it comes out clear. “Not flat. Don’t let her go flat.”
Jackson shifts her immediately, one arm under her shoulders, the other cradling her head, his whole body wrapped around her like if he holds her tightly enough he can keep her here by force.
“Like this?” he asks.
I nod once, not trusting myself to do more than that while I look at the wound again.
There’s too much blood.
Too much on her shirt, too much on my hands, too much soaked into the fabric I’m pressing down with. The back seat reeks of iron already, thick and unmistakable, and every time the car hits a bump the pressure slips just enough to make my stomach tighten harder.
Elijah is driving like the road owes him something, one hand locked so tightly around the wheel I can see the tension all the way from here, the other shifting constantly as he forces the car faster around corners and down dark stretches of road that never seem to end.
He keeps checking the rear-view mirror every few seconds, and every time he does I can feel the refusal in it, the way he won’t let himself see what’s right in front of him for too long.
“She’s not dying,” he says again, his voice flat and hard and completely unyielding. “She’s not.”
Jackson makes a broken sound that might be agreement or might just be him trying not to fall apart completely.
“Lia, please,” he whispers, pressing his face briefly to her temple before pulling back to look at her again. “Please, sweetheart. Don’t do this. Don’t you fucking do this.”
I shift my hands again.
The pressure point is wrong.
No, not wrong. The angle of the shirt is bunching underneath my palm and it’s stopping me from getting directly over it. I pull one hand away just enough to wrench the fabric tighter, then press down again with both hands, harder this time, feeling the way her body gives beneath it.
“Sorry,” I murmur without thinking, and I don’t even know if I’m saying it to her for the pain or to myself because I can’t stop it.
She doesn’t move.
My pulse kicks harder.
“Talk to me,” Jackson says, and now he’s not begging softly anymore, he’s trying to drag her back by force, trying to make his voice matter enough to pull her through whatever darkness she’s sunk into. “Lia, come on. You hate when I get dramatic, remember? You always roll your eyes at me. Do it now. Come on.”
Nothing.
I swallow hard and force my focus back to the wound.
This is what matters. Not the panic. Not the blood all over my hands. Not the fact that my chest feels so tight it’s actually starting to hurt.
Pressure.
Breathing.
Consciousness.
“Jackson, keep her upright,” I say again, because if I stop talking, if I stop giving instructions, then I’ll start hearing too much of what’s in my own head. “Don’t let her slump.”
