Clasping his hand, I squeezed. “I’m here, man. Don’t give up.”
My other hand drifted to my torso, prodding the tender rib. Louille said I was lucky the bullet had passed so cleanly. He couldn’t explain the trajectory to miss such vital organs, but I could. Flying through the air, twisting into position to save my sister had kept me alive.
The bullet hadn’t found a perfect target.
Tracing the puckered skin through the thin cotton of a t-shirt I’d been given, I gritted my teeth. This morning, they’d removed my stitches. They’d discontinued my antibiotics and announced the good news.
I was healing quickly.
I’d agreed that was good news. I’d demanded to leave early.
But Louille just laughed as if I should be moved to the psych ward rather than recovery. His emotions shouted he was pleased with my irritation—it proved he’d excelled in his profession as healer—but his mouth said it wouldn’t kill me to wait another few days.
What he didn’t know was his words were too close to the truth.
Kestrel, on the other hand…
I squeezed his fingers again. He hadn’t woken up. He’d been in an induced coma for almost two weeks, giving his body time to heal. The bullet had entered his chest, rupturing his left lung, shattering a few ribs. Bone fragments had punctured other delicate tissues, ensuring his body had a lot more mending to do than mine.
His left lung had taken the full impact, deflating and drowning with blood. He’d been on the ventilator since arriving. Louille said if he caught pneumonia due to his system being so weak, there wouldn’t be much they could do.
I couldn’t think about that ‘what if.’
For now, he breathed. He lived.
You’ll get through this, brother. I have complete faith.
He’d always been the stronger one.
Louille also said Kes was alive thanks to the small calibre bullet Cut used and the rib that’d taken a lot of the original impact. He said it was surprisingly hard to kill someone with a gun—despite the tales—and proceeded to tell me a bedtime story—completely unsolicited—about a gang war in south London. A sixteen-year old had five bullets fired into him—one lodged in his skull, the other damaged his heart—yet he stayed alive and healed.
Kes would, too. I had to keep that hope alive.
The gentle whooshing of air being forced into my brother’s broken body soothed my nerves. Even though he wasn’t awake, I offered company and acceptance.
Hovering by his side wasn’t just about companionship.
I had a purpose.
My senses fanned out, waiting to see if any of his thoughts or emotions tugged on my condition. Day after day, I hoped he’d wake up. My sensory output stretched, seeking any pain or suffering—if I could sense him, then he was awake enough to emanate his feelings.
However, just like yesterday, I sensed nothing but blankness.
Sighing, I smoothed back his unruly hair. “You’ll get better. You’ll see. You’re not going anywhere, Kes. I won’t allow it.”
DANIEL’S LITTLE GAME turned out to be tic-tac-toe.
Only there was no winning, under any circumstance.
At the beginning, I’d refused to play, but he’d soon taught me that that wasn’t an option. Jasmine couldn’t do a thing about it. She was a spectator while I was the pawn for entertainment.
Family night, Bonnie called it.
An evening spent huddled in the gaming room where the Third Debt had been attempted. With no care or comeuppance, they played Scrabble, Monopoly, and cards.
Cut smiled smugly whenever I shuddered with memories of that night, peering at the walls and chess chequered carpet.
Kestrel had been so kind and honourable. Jethro had been so conflicted and hurt.
Jasmine did her best to keep me in one unbloodied piece, but Daniel was given free control that night. His rules: play the game he wished or submit to a kiss instead.
And not just any kiss. A sloppy wet slurp with his tongue diving past my gag reflex and hands pawing my breasts.
After the second kiss, I gave up rebelling and played.