Page 172 of Captive Ruin

He pushes past me, dropping his bag on the floor, and bends over Amelia, tilting her head up. Pressing fingers to her throat, peeling back her eyelids. He drives his knuckles into her sternum, and Amelia twitches.

I slump against the wall, fists clenched so tight my forearms shake. Anyone else, any other time, I’d pull this man off her and smash his head into the wall until he dropped bleeding and unconscious. Rage burns white inside me. I want to fight, I want to lash out. Not just at him, but at Amelia for doing this. At me, for letting it happen.

More footsteps, but I don’t look away. A gasp draws my eye for an instant; it’s Natalie.

The doctor opens his bag. “Anna, I need my supplies,” he says calmly as he pulls out a bag of saline, tubes, needles. “Portable ECG and pulse oximeter. Everything in the emergency cupboard. Find flumazenil on the drug shelf.” He throws her a look. “Oxygen first. Got that?”

“Yes, doctor.” She turns and leaves, giving instructions to two of Bastien’s security as she goes.

There are far too many people here, most of them doing nothing. I don’t want them seeing Amelia like this, but I’m loath to prevent it. Not if the doctor needs them.

“What’s the prognosis?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer, only pulls out a cannula and pushes it into her arm. “Pick that up.” He nods at the bag of saline. “Hold it high.”

I’m grateful for something to do, at last. Even if all I am is a human pole. A tube runs out of the bag and he fits it to the cannula.

Amelia isn’t moving. I can’t even tell if she’s breathing. Is this what it was like when they found Juliette? No. She was already dead. Amelia isn’t dead; she can’t be. I’ve only just found her, I’ve only just married her. I wanted to make her happy, to share with her the happiness she’s brought me.

A man races into the suite, and I twitch. I’m desperate to stop him at the door, but I can’t do anything while I’m holding this bag of fluids save for grinding my teeth. It’s one of Bastien’s security, and he thrusts a cylinder into the doctor’s hands with a face mask attached. The doctor fits it over Amelia’s mouth.

“Can you hold this too?” the doctor asks.

“Yes.” Fuck, I’ll do anything it takes.

Saline in one hand, arm extended. Mask pressed to her face with the other. “Come on, Little Stray. Wake up for me now.”

I don’t care who’s listening, so long as she is.

“We’re going on a date as soon as you’re well,” I tell her. “Just you and me. I’ve got ideas… I’ve been making plans for a while. All that time away? I’ve got a whole list of things. The theatre? Opera?” There’s no response. I swallow hard, my throat tight. Tears spill down my cheeks and I can’t wipe them away with my hands occupied. “I want to take you to a gun range,” I tell her, my voice cracking on the words. “Show you how to do it properly. There’s one not far from here… or one in upstate New York. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

I don’t know if she’d think it was fun. When I had the idea, it was half ironic, half provocative. Hell, at this point, I’d settle for some cutting, sarcastic refusal. I long for a reaction from her.

But there’s nothing.

“Mask off,” the doctor says.

I pull it away, and he pushes a tube into her mouth, working it down until it’s obvious it’s gone into her throat. Inches of clear plastic protruding from her mouth, held in place with a clip wedged between her teeth.

“Mask over the top.”

The tube is in the way, but he must know that. I do it anyway, ignoring the ache in my arm of holding the saline for so long. It’s mild, anyway. I want it to hurt more. I’d take any pain—any pain—if it meant I could see her eyes open.

More men arrive. One thrusts a bottle into the doctor’s hands, others wheel in machines, plugging them in. Anna is back there somewhere, directing. Natalie stands in the corner, both hands covering her mouth as she watches. This isn’t a fucking theater. This is my wife.

And I drove her to this. The guilt is crushing. All my strength, all my resources, all of it useless in the face of my neglect and a small bottle of pills.

The doctor injects a drug into her cannula, then feeds a liquid down the tube. It’s black and muddy.

“Activated charcoal,” he mutters at my look. “It’ll absorb what’s left of the drug.”

That’s less drastic than I was envisaging, and I allow it to kindle some hope. A moment later, he pulls the tube from her mouth. It just keeps coming out.

“I think we got here in time.”

“Oh, thank God.” My legs want to crumple in relief, but I have to hold the damn bag.

Another man brings a pole for it, and the doctor hooks it into position. Our bedroom is now a recovery room, with as much equipment as a typical ER.