But it is. Hundreds of militiamen and all their vehicles go plunging into the river.
“Fucking hell,” Cade breathes out, more of his weight leaning against me. “I wouldn’t’ve missed seeing that for the world.”
Then he slumps limply to the ground.
Cade isn’t dead.
That’s the most important thing.
He passed out from pain or weakness or loss of blood or all the above. But he’s still breathing, and two hours later, he’s in a bed in a private room in the militia compound.
The compound is ours now.
What was left of the force after the bridge blew either fled or were quickly dispatched. The nonfighters inside the walls—including a lot of children—all surrendered without hesitation. And so the whole thing was over before the sun rose more than a small distance above the horizon.
The nurse on his crew bandaged Cade up and said there didn’t seem to be any serious injuries, but I’m worried because—although he’s been in and out of consciousness—he still hasn’t fully woken up.
I’m not sure what’s going on outside this room. I assume everyone is clearing all the rooms and rounding up any surviving militia and organizing themselves. I don’t really care.
I just want Cade to wake up.
I’ve been kneeling on the floor beside his bed, but my knees are getting sore, so I finally squeeze onto the bed beside him, stretching out next to his big, warm body.
I almost lost him. It was touch and go in a very real way.
And I’m brutally aware that if I hadn’t changed my mind on the way inside the Pub last night after Cade was captured, none of this would have happened.
Cade would have died. No one would have ever defied the militia again.
And I’d be fucking customers in the Pub for the rest of my life.
“What’s the matter, angel?”
The hoarse, murmured question surprises me so much I squeak. “Cade?”
“Course it’s me. What’s the matter? You upset?”
“No, I’m not upset. Or my only upset is that you wouldn’t wake up.”
“Oh. Sorry. I feel like crap.”
“Well, you look like crap too, but you’re still alive, I think.”
“I am.” He groans as he props up a little more and opens his eyes. “Being dead wouldn’t hurt this much.”
“No. It wouldn’t.” I stretch up to kiss him very lightly.
“What happened? Got a feeling you saved the day single-handed.”
“No, I didn’t. I told you before. Everyone helped.”
“Did you make the plan?”
“No. Pete did most of it.”
“So tell me why I’m absolutely positive you made this whole thing happen?”
I pause for a minute. Then rather sheepishly tell him the truth. “Well, I was the one who got it going. I saw them capture you. It was my idea to get the message out to rally help from your crew and all the locals. But I definitely didn’t do it alone.”
