Tears well in my eyes, hot and sharp. I squeeze Victoria’s hand back. “This isn’t on you. On any of you,” I insist, my voice hoarse. “She played all of us. But you guys…you guys never stopped fighting for me. You never gave up.” I look between them, my vision blurring. “I never had friends like you before. I never knew I could.”
One day, I’ll have to tell them everything that happened between me and POP.
I’ll have to tell Piper the truth about Blair’s death.
But not now, not today, not when my emotions are already fragile, and all I want to do is hold the men I love.
We stay like that for a long time, a tangle of hands and quiet sobs and whispered promises. Eventually, a nurse pokes her head in, reminding us of visiting hours, and with promises to return tomorrow, the girls leave, taking a little piece of the tension with them.
My guys, of course, refuse to go. The nurse doesn’t even bother trying to convincing them. She simply throws them a steely-eyed glare, then fiddles with the machine connected to me, her movements brisk and businesslike. She leaves without another word.
“I feel like I can finally breathe,” Landon murmurs, sinking into the armchair pulled close to the bed. He shakily runs a hand through his brown hair, disrupting the strands.
“This is like shitting after days of constipation," Zane pipes in, alleviating the tension.
Dominic crinkles his nose in disgust. “You’re sick.”
“I’m funny,” he counters.
Beckett shakes his head. “You’re really not.”
Zane pushes his lips out in an exaggerated pout and turns toward me, blinking his long lashes. “Ellie! They’re being mean to me.”
A giggle catches in my throat.
These men…
What would I do without them?
The room smellslike antiseptic and warm plastic, the steady beep of a monitor counting out time I don’t quite trust yet.
I’m propped up in bed, bruised, sore, wrapped in more blankets than necessary. Landon sits to my left, his thumb brushing slow circles over my wrist like he’s afraid to stop touching me. Beckett is pacing, his bruises stark on his pale skin, though he doesn’t seem to notice or care. Dominic is standing at the foot of the bed, jaw tight, eyes sharp, like he’s still cataloging threats. Ryker leans against the wall closest to my head, one hand resting lightly on my shoulder, grounding me with his quiet presence.
Zane is gone.
I notice it absently at first, like my brain is skipping stones over details it can’t fully process yet. Then minutes pass. Too many.
“Where’s Zane?” I ask.
Beckett glances toward the door. “He said he had to take care of something.”
That doesn’t help. Zane taking care of something is usually loud, impulsive, or illegal.
Another minute ticks by.
Then the door opens.
Zane slips inside wearing an oversized coat that definitely doesnotbelong to him. It hangs awkwardly from his shoulders, bulky in all the wrong places. He’s holding it closed with both hands, posture stiff, eyes shifty.
I squint. “Why do you look like a trench-coat criminal from a bad spy movie?”
The coat wiggles.
I freeze.
“…Did that just move?” I whisper.
Zane clears his throat. “Okay. Before anyone freaks out?—”
