Page 91 of Borrowed Pain
After he disappeared into the guest room to shower, I pulled out my phone and opened Harrow's latest message. The authentication files she'd sent looked legitimate—peer-reviewed research, institutional affiliations, and testimonials from colleagues I respected.
My phone buzzed with a check-in reminder from Harborview. Six hours until I discovered whether Dr. Celeste Harrow represented salvation or damnation.
Either way, there was no backing down now.
***
Matthew stood at the stove stirring while the aroma of garlic and herbs curled around him. He still wore his EMT uniform from his morning shift. The Seattle Fire Department patches on his sleeves were slightly wrinkled, and his radio sat silent on the kitchen counter beside his medical bag.
The guest room door remained closed—Rowan had finally succumbed to exhaustion an hour ago, his body claiming the rest his mind refused to grant.
"You're heading out on your own today," Matthew said without turning around. "Going somewhere you think might be dangerous."
I leaned against the kitchen island, checking my phone. 12:43 PM. Seventy-seven minutes until my meeting with Harrow. "Want me to help with lunch?"
"You have that look Dad used to get." Matthew ladled soup into three bowls, the liquid steaming and flecked with fresh parsley. "Before a particularly bad call."
My stomach clenched. "What look?"
"Like you're calculating whether saving someone else is worth the risk to yourself." He set a bowl before me, the ceramic warm against my palms. "Like you've already decided the answer is yes, but you're hoping someone will talk you out of it so you don't have to carry the responsibility alone."
Matthew had always been one of the most observant of us. He knew how to read life-or-death calculations in the faces of others.
"It's not that dramatic," I lied, taking a spoonful of soup that tasted like comfort and home.
"Bullshit." Matthew settled across from me with his bowl, and Dorian joined us. "I get calls where protocol says wait for fire department backup, but waiting means watching someone bleed out or suffocate or go into cardiac arrest while I fill out forms."
The soup warmed my throat, rich with vegetables Matthew had probably grown himself. "Sometimes you have thirty seconds to decide whether someone else's life is worth your own safety."
Steam rose from our bowls, and I detected thyme in addition to the garlic.
"The difference is," Matthew continued, tearing a piece of bread with methodical precision, "Dad and I trained for those moments. I have protocols, backup procedures, and equipment designed to keep me alive while I save other people. You're walking into something without any of that."
I glanced toward the closed guest room door. "I have backup. I have you. All of you."
Matthew sighed deeply. "That's not the same as tactical training, Miles. We can't protect you if we don't know what you're walking into."
My phone buzzed against the table—another check-in reminder.
"What would you do?" I asked. "If you had a patient dying, and someone offered you an experimental treatment that might save them but could potentially kill you both?"
Matthew was quiet for a moment, considering. "I'd try everything I knew first. Then I'd call for backup. Then, if backup couldn't reach us in time..." He shrugged. "I'd probably try the experimental treatment."
"Even if it meant leaving Dorian behind?"
Dorian looked at me while Matthew answered. "That's the part that would destroy me. Not the dying—the possibility of leaving him to carry my stupid heroic gesture for the rest of his life."
The parallel was unmistakable. Rowan, exhausted and fragile from watching Rook die, terrified of losing someone else he cared about. Me, walking toward potential danger because I couldn't live with the possibility of failing more clients.
"Don't make us bury another McCabe," Matthew said quietly.
I finished the soup in contemplative silence.
When I stood to leave, he wrapped me in a massive hug. "Text updates. Every thirty minutes. And Miles? Trust your instincts. If something feels wrong, get out. Don't worry about being polite."
I nodded against his shoulder.
"Communication protocols are set," Dorian said, handing me a small device that looked like a fitness tracker. "GPS-enabled, panic button disguised as a heart rate monitor. Press and hold for three seconds, and we'll have your location with an emergency response. For check-ins, just press the button once."
