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“Keep the pressure on her chest,” Zade instructs. Quickly and carefully, he slides Mom out of my lap, cradling her against his chest while I keep my hands firmly planted on the wound. Together, we rush up to the front door just as it opens.
Two men usher us in, Dad close behind. The warmth and comfort of the house are familiar, yet still shocking to my system.
I recognize both men. The elder one is Teddy, and the younger one—though still in his forties at least—is Tanner.
They lead us down the hallway straight ahead and into a room with a hospital bed, IV pole, and several other machines.
Panic resurfaces, and I’m no longer standing in Teddy Angler’s hospital room but Dr. Garrison’s. He’s standing before me, pleading with me to come with him, a crazed look in his milky blue eyes. Half of his head is gone, blown off from Rio’s bullet, and his shredded brains exposed.
No, no, no. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to—
“Adeline,” Zade calls roughly, shaking me until Dr. Garrison fades, replaced by concerned yin-yang eyes. “You’re here with me, little mouse. No one is going to take you from me.”
I blink, vision blurred, and chest tight with panic.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, frustration beginning to filter in alongside the million other fucking emotions I can hardly contain.
“Don’t be, baby. Come sit down, and let them operate. Your mom is going to make it, okay?”
“Is that what Teddy said?” I ask, peeking around Zade’s shoulder, but I can’t see much behind Teddy’s larger stature and Tanner on the other side. Dad sits in the corner of the room, staring at Mom with a pinched expression.
“He hasn’t said much, which is a good thing. If he’s operating, then there’s a chance.”
Nodding my head, I let him lead me back out into a small living room filled with green and navy blue plaid couches, a bearskin rug, and a deer head mounted above the brown fireplace, a fire raging within. The floor, walls, and furniture are made up of burnished wood, giving the house a homey, relaxed feel.
I collapse onto the couch and start to drop my head in my hands but immediately jerk away, reminded that they’re covered in dried blood. I glance around, hoping that I’m not ruining Teddy’s couch, and sit on the floor instead.
Then, I remember Sibby is still absent, and my head is swiveling all around.
“Where did Sibby go?” I question, wiping the snot leaking from my nose. Honestly, of all things, embarrassment is low on the list of things I should be feeling. And something tells me Zade has seen me in far more ridiculous situations while stalking me, so snot bubbles are the least of my concern.
Zade sits next to me, pulling me into his chest and cocooning me in his arms. As nice as it feels, I’m incapable of relaxing. Thousands of bugs are crawling beneath the surface of my skin, filling my skull with the buzz of their wings.
“I’ll check on her in a bit. There wasn’t room in the car for her henchmen, and they stayed behind. I think it’s freaking her out. They weren’t there when she was taken to the mental facility, and she probably has some sort of separation anxiety now.”
I nod my head. Her henchmen are as real to her as Zade is sitting next to me. It’s not as easy as just making them go poof or conjuring them before her whenever she wants. She sees them as real people, so she has to make sense of it when they do appear.
Eventually, they’ll come back to her, and she’ll probably see two men dressed as monsters walking up the driveway toward her.
“He was right,” I whisper. “It was my fault she was shot.”
“You didn’t fire off the gun, nor did you personally aim that bullet at your mother. It was not your fault.”
I remove myself from his arms, feeling uncomfortable in my own skin. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t pull the trigger, I still caused it when I pushed his arm down.
Sensing my inner turmoil, Zade rolls his neck, cracking the muscles. Sitting forward, he rests his elbows on his spread knees and links his hands together.
My eyes lock onto them, tracing the veins running through them. Those hands have killed so many and have protected many, too. How does he compartmentalize his sins from his good deeds?
“If you were me, would you feel guilty?” I question, my voice hoarse from the tears.
He casts his stare down, contemplating that. “You’ve seen me shoulder responsibility for a death I didn’t cause. When I took down a ring, and that little girl was shot and killed right before I got into the building. Or when you were kidnapped when I was supposed to be protecting you… it’s hard not to take it fucking personally. Feeling that weight is what makes you human. But there’s a difference between feeling another’s pain and blaming yourself because someone else hurt them.”
He lifts his gaze, the intensity burning his eyes searing me from the inside out.
“The rose carved into my chest is proof that it’s never that simple. Sometimes I cling to that guilt because I don’t feel so far gone. But that doesn’t mean I won’t remind you every day that the blame you shoulder isn’t worthy of you.”
I close my eyes, a weak attempt to hold back another wave of tears. A sob works its way out of my throat, and I cover my mouth to contain it, but that’s not any more effective.
