My jaw locks.
Logan steps closer, voice dropping to something quieter and more dangerous. “You want her to live through whatever they gave her?” The words hit. Clean. Cruel. Effective.
I hate that they work. “Yes.”
“Then you let Doc do his fucking job.”
I stare at him. My body rejects it. Logic doesn’t. That pisses me off more. Finally, I nod once. “Doc, no one else.”
“We’ll see what she needs.”
“No one else,” I repeat.
Logan holds my stare, then gives one sharp nod. “Fine. For now.”
The front door opens somewhere down the hall, and Doc’s voice cuts through the clubhouse a second later. “Where is she?”
“Infirmary,” Emma answers.
Footsteps come fast.
I step closer to the bed, placing myself between the door and Olivia before Doc even appears.
Logan sees it and mutters, “Jesus fuck.”
Doc strides in carrying his bag, gray hair a mess, face already set in the expression he gets when he’s about to call everyone in the room an idiot. He stops short when he sees me. Then Olivia. Then me again. “Move,” he says.
“No.”
Logan’s head drops back for half a second. “Cobra.”
Doc narrows his eyes. “Boy, I have stitched your hide more times than I can count, and I have never once asked sweetly when someone needed care. I’m not starting now. Move.”
I don’t.
Doc doesn’t look scared. That’s either courage or age making him stupid. He points toward Olivia. “She breathing?”
“Yes.”
“Pulse?”
“Steady.”
“Responsive?”
“No.”
“Drugged?”
“Needle.”
Doc’s gaze sharpens, then he looks toward the mark at her neck. “How long?”
“Thirty minutes. Maybe less.”
“Then every second you stand there being territorial is a second I don’t have to figure out what’s in her system.”
The word territorial hits the room.
