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“You okay?” Brittany asks, glancing at Raithe over her shoulder.

“He’s fine. Let’s go. I need to see Lydia,” I say to her, smoothing out my tone.

It’s not the paramedics’ fault that any of this happened. It’s the asshole in the backseat’s fault. I ball my fists at my sides, digging my nails into my palms until it stings. The urge to reach back and remove Raithe’s head from his shoulders is nearly unbearable. Once I know that Lydia is okay, I’ll demand answers from the dead man in the backseat. After that, I want Raithe Reilly out of my fucking life, one way or another.

“Callum,” Raithe pleads, his voice hoarse.

I swear I hear a hint of remorse in his tone, and it only adds to the blinding rage. Now he’s sorry? Now that my girl is fighting for her fucking life, he’s sorry?

“Not now, Raithe,” I bark out, unable to think about anything other than Lydia right now.

Is she okay? What are they doing to her? Did the bullet hit anything vital? Is she … will she …

I can’t even finish that last thought.

Raithe sighs but remains silent for the remainder of the drive. After what feels like fucking decades, we pull up to Hollowcrest Memorial Hospital. Pushing open the passenger door, I jump out of the truck as Brittany pulls onto a ramp below bright neon letters that read ‘Ambulance.’

“Callum!” Brittany calls out as I stumble from the truck and take off running toward the entrance.

I don’t even bother closing the door behind me. This cannot wait. I have to get to Lydia now. I get the feeling that I’m not supposed to barge through the doors alongside another set of medics pushing a stretcher with some old guy on it, but I don’t fucking care. I’ll tear through the concrete structure to get to her if I have to. I’ll stop at nothing.

“Sir, wait!” one of the medics yells after me.

I don’t wait. I keep moving, keep running in an aimless direction until a security guard who’s about my size steps into my path. Nearly falling into him, I come to a sudden stop. My gaze drops to his badge, and I smirk. Ethan is about to have his face beaten in. I take in his stature—similar to mine. I’m not afraid to take this motherfucker down if I have to, and I mold my expression to match my thoughts. He doesn’t back down.

“Sir, I’m going to need you to come with me to the waiting area,” douchebag security guy says, his voice stern and reeking of unearned arrogance. Rolling my eyes, I huff out a weak sound that somewhat resembles a laugh.

“Where is Lydia Aston, Ethan?” I ask, my voice full of the vengeance that I’ll bring down on this entire place if he doesn’t tell me what I want to know.

The bodyguard wannabe takes a step closer to me, lifts his chin, and sticks out his chest. Placing his hands behind his back, he lets me know that he isn’t intimidated by me. I have to hand it to the guy, he’s got balls of steel. It’s too bad he’s fucking with the wrong one. I’m about to show good on that thought when I unexpectedly hear Riven’s voice. The sound of it instantly puts my feet back on somewhat solid ground.

“Cal, come on, man. Sloane and I are going to a surgery waiting area. Come with us.” Riven appears beside me, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder.

Surgery?

“How did you—”

“Sloane is Lydia’s emergency contact. The nurses called her,” Riven says.

Sloane peeks around him, her eyes puffy and bloodshot. The anger begging to rip me to shreds softens a bit in her presence, and I give her my best impression of a sympathetic smile. Dropping my shoulders, I glare at Ethan before stepping away to follow Riven and Sloane down the hallway.

“Is Lydia in surgery?” I ask.

“Yeah. They said that the bullet embedded itself in her left upper chest, near the collarbone. They were concerned that the fragments may have hit a lung or an artery or something like that. I’m not sure of the specifics, but they wanted to bring her to surgery quickly to stop the bleeding,” Riven says, turning left into a small waiting area.

His words cause a steady ringing in my ears, and I move to a seat opposite him and Sloane on autopilot. I repeat Riven’s words, running through them in my mind until all worst-case scenarios take center stage.

I did this to her. I pulled the fucking trigger.

“Cal,” Riven starts, his voice barely above a whisper, “wanna tell me what the fuck happened?” Sighing, I stand and shut the door to the small waiting area before returning to my seat.

“Riv.” I pause, rubbing the back of my neck hard enough to burn. “I don’t even know where to fucking start.”

“How about the part where you shot Lydia Aston?” he whispers, framing it as more of a question. I wince at his choice of words, grinding my molars hard enough to hurt.

“Someone has been following us, toying with us,” I say, the memories of everything that Raithe fucking Reilly did flooding into my mind. “He followed us from Havencrest, and we got into an accident. It was fucking raining, and—and I didn’t know it was her. I was seeing things, hallucinations, I think.” I can’t lie to my best friend, not anymore—not after everything.

“Hallucinations?” he asks, narrowing his eyes in question. His psychology degree kicks in as his gears begin to turn. “What do you mean, hallucinations, Cal?”