Page 120 of Dash

Riot:

It’s me at the door. Open up.

I blink then I’m moving. When I drag it open, Riot looks haggard, like he’s aged a decade since I last saw him.

Has something happened to Ivy or Seren?

He steps into the apartment and dread coils in my gut like barbed wire.

If they needed him, he wouldn’t be here.

I feel the shift instantly, the way the ground feels unsteady beneath my feet, and my soul crawls with fear.

“Get dressed,” he orders. “We need to get to the hospital now. Dash’s hurt.”

Time stops. My breathing too.

Dash.

The man I can’t live without is hurt.

My hand presses to my churning belly. Words should come. They don’t. I’ve never been short of them, but I can’t make my tongue work.

I step forward and stagger as my vision rolls.

Riot steadies me as I gasp out, “Is he dead?”

I don’t know what the fuck makes me ask that.

Would the universe be so cruel to take everything from me when I only just found it?

“No. Fuck, no. Last I heard, they were taking him down to surgery.”

My heart is pounding so loud it drowns out whatever he says next, but he gives me a gentle push towards the bedroom.

My feet move automatically. Somehow, I pull on a pair of leggings and snag his hoodie off the back of the door and pull it overtop his T-shirt.

The car ride to the hospital is silent other than my heart pounding and the roar of the engine.

“What happened?”

“Job went bad,” he says. “He was… he was stabbed.”

It feels like that knife is in my chest when he says it. Someone stabbed Dash? I swallow down the bile threatening to rush out of my throat and hug my belly until we’re at the front of the hospital.

I shove the door open before the car’s stopped fully. Riot calls after me, but I run like my speed can save him.

The receptionist looks alarmed as I slam against the counter, breathing heavy. “I’m looking for Rhys Maddox.”

This time, I know his fucking name.

Her fingers move over the keyboard, then a moment later she says, “He’s in the special surgical unit. It’s on the second floor?—”

I don’t hear what else she says, my gaze already lifting to the signage, and as soon as I see the department name, I’m running.

The floors are slippy as I sprint along the corridors, dodging around wheelchairs and slow-moving visitors.

My heart is pounding so hard I’m pretty sure I might throw up, but I don’t stop until I reach the department.

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