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Stone’s high-pitched giggle bounces around the waiting room. And if I weren’t so selfish, I would show him the Sylvanian scenes I set up in his uncle’s room, but I don’t want him to move anything in case… Well, Xander might need the reminder of when we fell in love and…
All the other moments, too.
The clock circles slowly.
When Dr Matthews pushes through the double doors that lead to the theatre, it has been six hours and thirty-eight minutes since the surgery began.
His strides are fast and confident, his hands working on rectifying his scrubs and stethoscope.
Bronson doesn’t move, except for his eyes that drag upwards from his lap. Max, Clay, and Luca are on their feet before Matthews stops walking, meeting him in the corridor, expectancy clouding them.
I can’t breathe.
Somehow, I manage to stand on shaky legs and follow them, halting just behind but close enough to hear every word, watch every gesture and analyse every tell.
Ready.
I’m ready.
For anything.
Good.
Bad.
I’ll stay with you, Hothead.
“We believe the surgery was a success.”
I nearly collapse as my heart begins to pump again, wild and convulsive, as if it had been stalling all this time, hardly servicing my body.
“The bleeding has been controlled, the pressure has been managed, and he was responding to our instructions while we had him under mild sedation.”
The Butcher men all exhale.
“This doesn’t mean he is the same Xander, but it does mean he is alive and responding well and now, he’s groggy, but he made it very clear that he wants to see ‘his woman.’”
I inhale fast.
What?
Me?
He knows me?
The emptiness in my cavernous body floods with relief, all the blood and bones and muscles working again in a way I can feel and rely on. I feel alive again.
The Butcher men stare back, their shoulders parting to allow a direct run between me and Dr Matthews, who, last time, told me to get down from Xander’s bed and leave. My heart skids to a stop, then levels out.
“That’s you, I presume?” he says to me, and I blink at him, still lightheaded. “He wants to see you first without anyone else.” Matthews smiles, then risks Clay’s attention, adding, “Patient’s orders, Mr Butcher.”
“I’m Kaya,” I say stupidly.
“Well, Kaya,” Matthews acknowledges me kindly, “I’ll collect you once he’s in his room. He’s tired. I’m not sure how long he’ll be conscious, but he wants you. We will have a bed, we call a cot, in there for you, too. On the side. You can stay with him while he recovers.”
I nod fast as if to show how eager I am, how well-behaved I’ll be, just a stupid nodding mess of need and appreciation. The bed is for me. I’m the one who gets to stay.
For a moment, the old Kaya considers rushing to the restroom to fix her hair or cloak herself in perfume or— I remember he likes me messy just as much as he likes me poised, and I don’t want to be clean without him.
