Page 151 of Wyatt

That and…what was he doing home? But her pulse leaped at the thought of seeing him. Maybe he was home on break but—

Wait. Her eyes blinked open, and for a moment, she had nothing.

Then the world rushed at her and she woke up fast, whimpering. Sterile room, gray walls, the cool rush of oxygen in her nose.

“Babe. You’re okay.” Wyatt, standing over her.

Wow, he was handsome. Even with his bloodshot eyes, the worry lines in his brow. His beard had thickened, deepened, and he wore a flannel shirt. She had the urge to reach up and trace the flattened line where his nose had been broken so long ago.

But when she moved her hand, it pinched.

She looked over, found her left arm bandaged. And a gathering of Marshalls standing in the room. Gerri, RJ, Tate, and yes, even Knox. He stood with a woman with long brown hair, his arm over her shoulder.

And standing with Tate, a pretty, petite blonde.

“Hey,” said Tate. “Welcome back, Sugarplum.”

She smiled at his stupid nickname for her.

“You had us worried,” Knox said. He had always intimidated her a little—the man was as somber as midnight. But he had a fierce loyalty about him that made her want to stand in the cast of his shadow. Now, he walked up to her, touched her leg with his strong hand, squeezed. “I knew you were the brave one.”

RJ nodded. “Yeah, you should have seen her in Russia—”

“Let’s not talk about Russia,” Wyatt said. “Ever again.”

Behind Wyatt, York made a sound, something of a harrumph. He was leaning against the window. “Fat chance there, champ. You went to Russia, and Russia followed you home.”

Coco frowned at him.

“Give it a rest, York,” Wyatt said.

“No, what is he talking about?”

RJ rubbed her arms, glanced at Tate, then Knox. “Ma and I found a dead body yesterday at a hotel. We think Damien Gustov set us up.”

Coco’s eyes widened.

“Guys, really? Right now? She just had surgery.” Wyatt took her hand. “You’re going to be okay. You made a mess of your small intestines, but they put you back together. But you have a lot of scar tissue, I’m afraid.”

He eased himself into a chair, the movement tightening the muscles around his eyes.

“You’re hurt—what happened?”

“He’s fine,” Tate said. “Just made the papers with his super fabulous hockey hands, catching the cell phone that saved your life.”

“I fell and landed on my hip. It’s a little sore.”

She tried to ease herself up, but winced, and Wyatt was right there, moving her hospital bed up.

“But I’m right. This is not over, unfortunately,” York said. “Even if we are taking this time-out. My guess is that Damien Gustov fired the shot that killed your bomber.”

“Which means he was the one firing at me, at the podium?” Wyatt said.

“He fired at you?”

“Just before I was going to sell out Jackson to the world with the news that she’s some kind of Russian double agent.”

“Which is crazy talk,” said the blonde woman standing near Tate.

---