Page 67 of Relentless Knight

I sob as Lance steps out of the driver’s seat, Killian and Natasha sliding out of the back.

“I brought one home for your medical attention,” Killian says, keeping his arm wrapped firmly around Natasha’s shoulders.

She looks as pale as a ghost, her expression somber, her eyes haunted, but I don’t see any visible wounds. That’s when Killian tips his head over his right shoulder, indicating one of the cars behind them.

Two King men help a third out of the back seat, and the man hobbles forward on one good leg. The other appears to have a bullet wedged in his thigh.

“Take him to my infirmary,” I state.

Then I fall into step with my brother, though I ache with the need to collapse gratefully into Lance’s arms. But that will have to wait until we have a moment alone.

“Is this it?” I whisper, picking up on the grim faces of the men who have come home.

“No, we had to scatter to avoid mass arrests,” Killian says.

Relief surges through my veins, followed by another icy dose of fear. And I take Natasha in with fresh eyes, then Killian, then Lance as I note a distinct absence from the people who left here this morning. “Where’s Tatiana?”

“She traded places with me so Lucian would let me go,” Natasha says, her voice hollow.

“Lucian said he would end the war and allow Tatiana to keep her territory as well. If she married him.”

Killian’s expression is near tortured, and I can only imagine how horrible he must feel over what’s happened. Now that I know the whole picture, I can see the guilt weighing down hisshoulders, the sense of responsibility for how terribly things have gone wrong—even if it’s not his fault.

“Poor Tatiana,” I breathe.

And silent tears start streaming down Natasha’s cheeks.

“I’m taking Natasha to our room,” Killian says, and he pats my shoulder. “We’ll talk later.”

I nod, heart heavy as I turn toward the infirmary. And Lance follows. His steps carry him beside me, and his hand twitches, as if he wants to reach out and take mine. But he doesn’t. Instead, we walk in silence.

The men already have Christopher up on the table when I walk in, and he’s reclining back, his teeth clenched as he stares up at the ceiling.

“What happened here?” I ask, going through my usual checklist of questions, though it’s easy to ascertain the basics.

“Ricochet, I think,” he grits out.

“Let’s take a look.” Pressing the back of my hand to his forehead, I check for any preliminary signs of fever. So far, so good. I don’t think he’s even gone into shock.

I cut open the thigh of his pants, ignoring his grunt of protest as I peel the fabric back.

“Good news. It’s right in the meat of your muscle,” I state, sticking to layman’s terms. “And it didn’t go deep.”

I scrub my hands clean before snapping on a pair of latex gloves. Then I bring a tray of surgical tools closer and fill a syringe with some local anesthetic. It takes all of twenty minutes to extract the bullet and five stitches later, he’s as good as new—well, almost.

“Thanks, Doc,” Christopher says as he hobbles toward the door.

And though I won’t be a doctor even after I graduate, I let the nickname slide. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell Killian’smen, they keep calling me Doc. “You’re welcome,” I say, my lips twitching into a smile.

“See you in the morning, Lance,” he adds.

Lance gives a jerk of his chin in acknowledgment. Christopher and his companions are out the door, leaving us mercifully alone.

I turn to Lance, releasing my first breath of relief as I inspect him more closely. Blessedly, he looks perfectly fine—aside from the stitches he already sustained from protecting me in the parking garage.

“Are you alright?” I ask, crossing the room quickly to throw my arms around him.

And it feels so incredibly good to feel how warm and strong and alive he is as he wraps me in his big, muscular arms.

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