"I don't care." The words come out fierce, absolute. "I don't give a fuck about any of that. I care about you. Just you."
I watch her throat work as she tries to swallow, tries to process what I'm saying against whatever nightmare scenarios are playing in her head. She's always been afraid of needing people, of depending on anyone after watching her mother die. And now her body's betrayed her in a way she couldn't prevent, couldn't control, couldn't fight.
Dr. Reeves clears his throat quietly. "I'll give you two some time. Zola, I'll check back in a few hours. If your pain increases or you feel anything unusual, press the call button."
He slips out, and the door closes behind him with that same too-final click. The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything unsaid.
"I'm taking you home." I keep my voice steady, certain. "Soon as they clear you. You're coming home with me and you're going to rest and let me take care of you."
Usually she'd fight this, push back against my need to handle things for her. But something's shifted. The shock or the pain or maybe just exhaustion has worn down her defenses enough that she just nods.
"Okay."
That single word of agreement tells me how badly she's rattled. I brush my thumb across her cheekbone, feeling the warmth of her skin, the realness of her.
"We'll get through this." I lean forward, press my forehead against hers carefully, mindful of any injuries I might not see. "I've got you. I promise."
Her hand comes up, fingers curling around my wrist. "I know."
She does know. For all her fears about dependence, about needing people, she's never doubted that I'll be there. That's the foundation we've built everything else on—the certainty that I'm not going anywhere, that I'm hers completely even if she can't quite believe she's allowed to have that.
I stay like that, touching her, reassuring myself that she's real and whole and alive, until her breathing evens out and her grip on my wrist loosens. The pain medication pulls her under gradually, her eyes drifting closed despite her attempts to stay awake.
"Sleep, love." I shift carefully, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I'll be right here."
She murmurs something unintelligible and lets sleep take her. I stay beside the bed, one hand still holding hers, counting the steady rise and fall of her chest. Each breath is proof that she's okay, that we didn't lose this, that whatever bastard ran her down didn't succeed in taking her from me.
I'm memorizing the curve of her jaw, the way her braids fall across the pillow, when a soft knock interrupts. The door cracks open and Stellan leans in, reading the situation with that quick intelligence that makes him so effective.
"She's asleep," I say quietly.
He nods, steps fully into the room, and his expression goes carefully neutral in a way that means trouble. "Uncle's here."
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. "What?"
"He heard what happened." Stellan keeps his voice low, aware of Zola sleeping three feet away. "He's waiting in the hall. Wants to talk to you."
Of course he does. Vittorio Wolfe doesn't let anything happen in this city without knowing about it, especially not when it involves family. He's known about Zola—it's impossible to hide a relationship this serious for two years—buthe'snever taken it seriously. Never acknowledged her as more than a passingphase, something I'd grow out of once I focused properly on family business.
"I'm not leaving her alone." The words come out hard, non-negotiable.
"I'll sit with her." Stellan moves closer, glancing at Zola's sleeping face with something that might almost be concern. "If she wakes up, I'll tell her you'll be right back."
I don't want to leave. Every instinct I have screams at me to stay put, to keep watching over her, to make sure nothing else can hurt her. But Uncle doesn't make requests. When he shows up and asks for your time, you give it to him. That's the hierarchy we live in, the rules that have governed our family for generations.
"Fine." I stand carefully, releasing Zola's hand with reluctance. "Five minutes."
"Take as long as you need." Stellan settles into the chair I vacated, assuming my vigil with the same protective intensity. Whatever else he is, he's loyal. When he says he'll watch over her, I can trust that.
I move to the door, pausing with my hand on the handle to look back. Zola's face is peaceful in sleep, the stress and shock temporarily erased. She looks younger like this, vulnerable in a way she never allows when she's conscious.
The hallway is too bright after the dimness of the hospital room, fluorescent lights harsh against institutional white walls. Uncle Vittorio stands twenty feet down, near the nurses' station, somehow managing to look authoritative and dangerous despite the sterile medical setting. He's in his early sixties but carries himself like a man twenty years younger, all controlled power and old-world command.
"Uncle." I close the distance between us, aware of curious glances from hospital staff who sense without understanding that this man is someone important, someone you don't cross.
"Declan." He clasps my shoulder, the gesture brief and formal. "I heard about the accident. Unfortunate business."
Unfortunate. The word scrapes against my temper like sandpaper. Zola getting hit by some reckless piece of shit isn't unfortunate—it's criminal. It's someone nearly taking the most important thing in my world away from me.
