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Looking at Hawk, I say in a low voice, “She’s no longer safe.”
Taking his eyes off the road, he meets my worried gaze with a matching one of his own. “None of us are.”
We get Wilder to the hospital, and the doctors and nurses rush him into a room while we are shown to the waiting room. The three of us collapse into the plastic chairs. Thankfully, we’re the only ones here. Covered in blood, all of us look like we committed a horrific crime.
Hawk’s ass remains in the chair for all of three seconds before pushing to his feet and pacing the room. Under the stark hospital illuminations, his humor from earlier has disintegrated, and in its place is a guy who is worried about his best friend.
“He’ll be okay,” I say aloud, attempting to reassure both him and Emilia. I received rudimentary first-aid training in the Marines. Enough to know that while Wilder’s wounds are serious, we got him to a hospital in time. He’ll need a blood transfusion, stitches, and pain meds, but he should be back to his usual weird self in a few days, if not a little stiff and sore.
Emilia stares at the floor, not appearing to hear me, her leg bouncing.
“I’m going to get us coffee,” Hawk says, probably feeling as though he needs to do something other than just wait here. Not waiting for a response, he pushes open the door. Silence fills the room in his wake, and I soon find myself fidgeting.
I hate sitting and waiting. It's so unproductive. I'd much rather be doing something, assisting in some way, but there's nothing I can do right now. Wilder doesn’t need my help. Hawk doesn’t want it. The situation with Mel is a fucking mess that I don’t have the headspace to tackle and Emilia…
My gaze falls on her, noting the slight tremor in her hands, her pale face and sunken eyes, and the blood that’s saturated her clothes. Spotting a bathroom at the back of the room, I push out of my chair and hold out my hand for her.
Her focus shifts from the floor to my outstretched hand. "Let’s get you cleaned up, so you don’t look like death warmed up when they let us in to see Wilder," I explain when she doesn’t take my hand.
After a moment, her hand slides into mine, feeling all sorts of wrong as dried blood flecks off and sticks to my skin. Tugging her to her feet, I lead her to the bathroom.
Flicking the lock behind us, I hoist her onto the counter beside the sink. She looks so tiny, with her head ducked and her gaze unfocused. Tucking my finger under her chin, I lift her head until she meets my eyes.
“Talk to me, Blackbird.”
She swallows, tears welling up in her eyes. "What if he’s not okay? He... we had an argument before." Her brow furrows. "I don’t understand. He tracked me down at the library. He was livid, acting like his old asshole self, except I don’t know why. I slapped him"—she winces—"and headbutted him." I chortle, wishing I could have seen that. "But then in that bunker, he was saying all this stuff about how he was the one that ruined us and that his ghosts wouldn’t let him be happy." She frowns in confusion, her brows knitting together.
I run my hands up and down her arms in a soothing gesture. "Wilder has some dark demons he struggles with. I think he’s afraid to let himself be happy, and every time he reaches that happiness, he finds a way to sabotage it."
Her frown only deepens. “But he was happy once. Why can’t he allow himself to feel that again?”
Brushing my fingers through her blood-tangled hair, I meet her questioning gaze. "I can’t say I know Wilder particularly well. He’s a closed book most of the time, but I get the impression that those few months with you at Pac were the only time he’s been at peace. He knows what that kind of bliss feels like, and he also knows how soul-destroying it is to lose that."
Emilia huffs in frustration, and despite our dire situation, it’s cute as hell. "Except I’m not going anywhere this time. I’ve told him that. I don’t know how I can be any more clear."
I give her a sympathetic smile. "Only time will confirm that belief for him, but, sweetheart, Wilder’s issues have more to do with him than with you. He has to find his own inner peace, his own way of living with whatever haunts him. It’s a harrowing journey, but it’s one only he can choose to make."
Her eyes bounce between mine, softened with understanding. “Thank you for always being there for me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Giving her an easy smile, I promise, “Always.”
Returning it with a small one of her own, she leans forward and presses her lips to mine. The second our lips touch, the tension I’ve been carrying around since her phone call earlier loosens. Every ounce of fear I felt at seeing her in that basement bleeds into our kiss. Relief at feeling her in my arms crashes through me, and suddenly, I can’t get enough. Of her. Of the way she makes everything feel right in my world. Of the lightness in my chest when she’s around.
Before I know it, my body is pressed flush against hers, my hands in her hair, our tongues entwined. Our kiss is demanding, replenishing, restorative. All the dark, empty areas inside me are filled with Emilia’s light. In return, I push every ounce of comfort, reassurance, and promise of safety onto her.
We both breathe heavily when we break apart, her lips swollen and her eyes dazed. "I know everything is royally screwed up at the minute, but I’m glad that this means we no longer need to hide this."
She looks up at me, uncertainty deepening the green hue of her eyes. That raw vulnerability hits me like a punch to the gut.
“Right?” Her eyes dart between mine, searching. “We’re done pretending there’s nothing between us?”
In awe of this amazing woman in front of me, covered in blood yet remaining strong and unafraid to open herself up to love, I brush my thumb reverently over her cheek. "Yeah, baby girl. I’m done. I’ve wanted to call you mine for too long now. I was struggling with my past, and I just wanted to protect you, but I can’t hold back any longer." A teasing smile plays on my lips. "I should have known after convincing myself that your horrific singing was sweet,"—she fake gasps—"and thinking you were cute with peanut butter smeared all over your face—"
“One time,” she interrupts with a smile. “I had peanut butter on my faceone time.”
I chuckle. "That you were going to be a wrecking ball that would obliterate my world. You shook it up in the best way possible." My hands slide around the sides of her throat, my thumbs brushing the angle of her jaw. "You reminded me how full of joy life can be if you just open yourself up to it."
My eyes bore into hers. "Even back then, when your smiles were muted, and there was a dullness in your eyes, you still had moments of pure joy. Watching you open up and come alive has been a privilege I’m honored to have been a part of."
