Not willing to go far, I stand and move out of the way so that they can work on her. Then I look over at the police officer and breathe in deep. I can’t be there for Emmy until I make sure that motherfucker can’t ever get near her again.
“Sir? The assailant is in room four seventeen. When I left him, I believe he was breathing, pants around his ankles, and I’m pretty sure I broke his dick. My name is Maddox Locke. I’m the technical specialist and head of all surveillance and recon at Corps Security. I’m going to reach into my pants and grab my wallet so I can give you my card. Also, if you would like to call your chief, he can vouch for me. But I’m going to tell you this right now. When they load her up, I’ll be in that ambulance. When you need my statement, you can call my cell and I will tell you when I can give it to you. But I will not be leaving my woman’s side.”
His eyes are wide when I finish talking. The other two officers who had come in with him left the second I gave the room number.
“I’ve heard about you guys. I’ll give him a call, and if he gives me the green light, I’ll let you go, but we will need your statement ASAP.”
“I hear you.”
My eyes are still on Emmy as I reach in my jeans and pull one of my cards out of my wallet. I can hear him talking on the phone and I know from his tone that he’s getting chewed out by his chief. The plus side to having people owe you favors. You catch the police chief’s wife in bed with another man and you have an instant ally.
“Yes, sir,” he says before addressing me. “When we finish here, I’ll be in touch. You’re free to go when the ambulance is ready.”
I nod my head, still not removing my eyes from Emmy. Silently praying that she is going to be okay.
When the adrenaline starts to drop, I feel the severity of the situation fall heavily on me. My eyes prickle, and as I stand there helplessly watching her fight, I cry for the first time since I lost my leg eleven years ago.
CHAPTER 22
Maddox
During the twenty-minute drive to the hospital, I don’t move my eyes from her face. She still hasn’t woken, and even though I’m being told that she is stable, there won’t be anything that can soothe my soul until I see those honey-wheat eyes. I need to see that she is going to be okay. They can tell me until they’re blue in the face—until my angel comes back to me, I’m not leaving her side.
They stabilize her arm and leg, get her IV set up, and monitor her heart rate on the ride. The whole time, my eyes never leave her face. I can feel the paramedics moving around, checking her vitals, and communicating with the hospital about her condition.
I sit there like a worthless blob and wait.
“Sir, do you require any medical attention?” one of them asks.
I shake my head, not willing to move from my vigil.
“Are you—”
“I’m fine,” I stress.
The rest of the trip is a blur. The doors open when we arrive and the nurses work together with the EMT duo to move her into the hospital. When we reach the double doors, I’m stopped with a small hand against my chest. I almost plow right through her on my quest to stay by Emmy’s side.
“Sir, you can’t go any farther. If you will follow me, I’ll take you to the waiting room.”
She has to be fucking insane to think I’m going to just let them take Emmy.
“No.”
“I’m sorry, but you have no choice. It’s hospital policy. I understand you’re worried, but your wife is in good hands.”
My heart seizes when she calls Emmy my wife, and right when I see the doors close, the severity of the situation crashes into me and I crumble to the floor.
She doesn’t move. I can see her stupid, yellow Crocs and I focus on them like a lifeline.
“Is there someone I can call for you, sir?” she whispers, crouching down to give me her kind eyes.
“I need my . . . I need Emmy,” I whimper, the sound so foreign to my ears. My throat is on fire and I have to work double time to stifle the sobs that want to bubble up.
Man the fuck up, Maddox. Emmy needs you to stay strong.
She gives me the time I need to get my shit together and then offers her hand to help me stand. I wave her off and stand—or attempt to—before my leg protests my weight and I fall to my knees.
“Fuck!” I exclaim, my outburst echoing through the halls.
A few other staff members look over at me with concern. One steps forward to offer Little Miss Yellow Crocs some help, but she waves him off.
“Are you injured?” Her voice is low, controlled, and clinical. Her worry for my mental stability is clearly being trumped now that physically I’m falling to fucking pieces.
“Old injury that I aggravated,” I hedge and go to stand again. I cringe when I try to give my leg some weight. I need to get off of it, get the prosthetic off so whatever damage I did tonight doesn’t get worse.
“May I check?”
I shake my head and pull my pant leg up, showing her without words what she needs to know.