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But there are also several photographers and reporters.
Vultures.
I’ve always had a rather strained relationship with the media, especially after they camped outside of Rory’s house in the weeks following Adam’s death. She’d just lost the man she hoped to share a life with, the father of her unborn child. All they cared about was getting a clear shot of my brother’s grieving girlfriend.
What I wouldn’t give to ream them all out right now. Tell them Esme was less than a second away from arriving here in a damn body bag and to act like decent humans by allowing her time to process everything. Not shove a microphone in her face when she’s still obviously shaken up.
Drawing in a deep breath to push down my increasing pain, I open the door and step out of the SUV, then extend my good arm toward Esme, helping her to her feet. The second she emerges, flashes light up the area, reporters shouting questions. Each time a flash goes off, she startles, as if it’s a gun and not a camera.
A woman in scrubs pushes a wheelchair toward her, and I fully expect for Esme to claim she can walk just fine. Thankfully, she doesn’t, probably because she’s so rattled by all the commotion that she just wants to get somewhere peaceful.
The second she’s situated in the chair, the nurse pushes her inside. Archie and I remain mere steps behind as the medical staff asks her questions. Some she’s able to answer. Others I do for her.
After navigating the maze of corridors, the nurse brings her into a private room. I’m about to follow them and conduct a quick sweep, as is required, but Archie places his hand on my forearm.
“I got it.”
Normally, I’d insist on doing it myself, but I’m struggling to remain upright, my head spinning. I lean against the wall outside of Esme’s room and watch as Archie checks every inch of it.
When he’s done, he steps back into the hallway and closes the door, standing guard in front of it to prevent anyone from going inside without being searched.
“You okay, mate?”
I clench my jaw, then carefully shrug out of my jacket, the sleeve of my black shirt sticky with blood.
“Fuck, Creed.” Archie’s concerned gaze focuses on my arm as I push my finger through the hole in my shirt.
“The bastard got me, Arch.”
ChapterTwenty-Five
Esme
“You’ll needto change your dressings twice a day and clean them with soap and water,” a nurse tells me after she finishes bandaging up the cuts on my face and knees.
It feels like overkill to have been subjected to various tests and scans for the past hour, considering most people wouldn’t have the luxury of receiving this level of medical care.
But I’m not most people.
“You may also experience some discomfort, so be sure to keep ibuprofen on hand.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure, Your Highness.” With a subtle curtsy, she retreats from the room, Archie stepping inside moments later.
Which surprises me.
While Archie is technically my CPO, that’s not his role on this trip. If anyone should be standing guard outside my room it should be Creed.
“How are you?” he asks softly, worried eyes scanning my frame.
My attempt at a smile feels unusually fake. “A little sore,” I say evasively, not bringing up the fact that every time I blink, all I see is that damn gun. Every time I hear a door close, I jump, the sound reminding me of the gun going off.
It’s probably natural after something like this. Once the shock wears off, I doubt I’ll be so skittish. Right now, though, I’m still on high alert.
“That’s a relief.”
“Where’s Cr—Captain Lawson?” I ask as I slide off the bed. “Considering he’s been glued to my hip since the plane touched down, I would have thought he’d burst in here the second they told him he could.”
