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“Raven,” he whispered.
“Help!” she yelled, still looking over her shoulder, still blocking the door, still keeping pressure on his middle. “Bring a kit. Right fuckingnow!”
Then he heard it, heard his coworkers running down the hall.
“Raven,” he rasped out.
“I have you,” she whispered. “I’ve got you, honey. I’ve got you.”
But blood was flowing between her fingers, staining the pavement.
His body was growing colder, his vision was fading again, even though he knew she wasn’t letting up on the pressure on his middle.
Commotion all around him, people calling out orders, hands working on him, gauze being packed into his wound, but that didn’t hurt.
And that told Connor enough.
“Up!” Raven yelled. “Help me get him up on a gurney!”
“Sweetheart,” he rasped, reaching for her hand that was pressing hard into his stomach.
“Don’t talk,” she ordered. “One. Two.Three!”
Hands grabbed from all sides, and he was lifted in one smooth movement, brought to the side.
Fuckthat hurt.
His back hit the thin mattress of the gurney, and then he was moving down the hall, moving into the department, being wheeled into a room.
“What happened?”
“Get a line in him?”
“Anyone know his blood type?”
“Fluids!”
“Rave—” She looked up at him, hands bloody, eyes panicked.
“Save your strength, honey.”
Then her gaze went back to his coworkers, back to those who were frantically clustered around him, working on him with an intensity that he didn’t miss.
Didn’t miss what it meant.
Because he’d been here before, working on a patient that was close to the edge.
And…
Because he felt it.
In the way the edges of his vision went past gray, past tinged with black. How they slid straight into blurry. He felt it in the shadows intruding, clinging to his mind, making it so it was harder to think, harder to grasp on to his voice, his words.
He strained, focused hard, and clung to consciousness. “Raven.”
Her gaze slanted down, held his. “Connor, honey, save your—”
“Not your fault,” he rasped.
