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I grabher hand and thread my fingers through hers, as we leave the parking garage, making our way to the breezeway connecting us to the hospital. Her fingers squeeze mine as if she’s trying to suck the strength from me to channel it as her own.
She’s shaking, cold, and was quiet the whole drive. Hell, the seat warmer didn’t even help. My verbose, in-control woman is neither of those right now.
Colt is asleep in his carrier hanging from the crook of my other elbow. How he continues to sleep through this is beyond me, but I’ll count that as one of today’s few blessings.
As I lead her toward the front desk, it isn’t lost on me that it is rare that I actually lead this woman. She knows her mind, is always in charge, and takes no shit. She doesn’t need anyone. But I have no doubt that she needs me.
The receptionist points us in the right direction, and we continue down the angled halls into the labyrinth of sterile whites and cold metals to find the right elevator in the wing of this maze of hallways.
We enter, and she stares at the electric numbers as they flip before needing a tug to exit and make our way down the hall.
Her silence is eerie. Her diminutive form is foreign to me. Her spirit seems to have lost its light.
The double doors that lead to the grouping of rooms where Kimpton recovers are within eyesight. When Brighton sees them, she drags her feet, buying seconds more time.
“Bright?”
Her head bobs, but she doesn’t face me and doesn’t say anything.
“Brighton.”
Nothing. Oh hell, no.
I tug her to the empty waiting room on our left and place Colt’s carrier on the floor next to me.
Without preamble and with only a hungry look at her mouth, I push Brighton to the wall, hand at her neck, thumb at her jaw, tipping her face to mine.
I take her mouth, forcing entry.
My other arm goes low around her back tugging her to me.
She’s limp, as if her mind’s far away, and not with me. And then she is. A little moan of pleasure is audible and vibrates on my tongue. She meets me there, warring for dominance as is her way. She wraps an arm around my neck and threads her fingers through my hair.
I pull back and look into her eyes. “Darlin’, your dad is a Ranger. He may not be invincible but he’s a hell of a fighter. You of all people know that.”
She nods.
“He’ll make it. He’s too ornery not to. But he’s going to need you to be you when we get into that room.”
She nods again.
“You ready for this?”
“I am.” She throws back her shoulders and lifts her chin.
“Or at least fake it ‘till you make it?”
“Or that.” She offers a small smile with that comment.
I take her hand again, kissing the back of it, before grabbing Colt and the two bags on the floor, and lead her from the room to the metal double doors.
I indicate the call button. She acquiesces and pushes it, readjusting her spine.
“May I help you?” the disembodied voice asks.
“Brighton Ranger here for Kimpton Ranger in 1352.”
The buzz of the magnets being retracted is loud in the quiet space, and the doors part like Moses and the Red Sea.
