Page 72 of Welded Defender
When I shift, fire lances through my chest. Not a sharp stab—more like a hot rope dragged through flesh. I gasp, and the beeping speeds up, tattling on me.
Memory doesn’t walk back in so much as slam into me like a freight train. Brett coming out of the office, the gun, the shot that dropped me. Marcy!
I turn my head and groan when the room tilts sideways. But my chest eases the moment I spot her.
Marcy’s curled in the vinyl chair next to my bed, legs pretzeled under her, cheek resting against the bed rail like she fell asleep mid-guard duty. She’s wearing my green hoodie and drowning in it, sleeves pulled over her hands. Her hair is atangle and makeup smudged under her eyes, but she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.
She’s here—she’s okay.
A shape fills the doorway. “Holy shit, you’re awake.”
Ravi slips inside, eyes wide. He’s got the look of a man who’s been living under fluorescent lights for too many hours and is about to crash hard.
I try to talk. It comes out as a rasp. Ravi reaches for a Styrofoam cup and guides the straw to my mouth like I’m ninety. The first sip burns, then helps.
“What—what are you doing here?” I croak.
“My sister had the baby—I’m here to visit. But there are too many people crammed in her room already, so I thought I’d come check on you. Didn’t think you’d actually be awake though. They’ve got you on some pretty strong meds.” His eyes widen like he’s remembering something important. “Becket’s been here all day. I should get him.” He bolts into the hall, and seconds later I hear heavy boots slapping against the tiled floor.
Becket swings in, all broad shoulders and a face built for poker. The mask cracks—just a little—at the edges. “About damn time,” he mutters, moving to the far side of the bed and bracing a hand on the rail. His eyes sweep over me like he’s checking torque specs—IV, monitors, my color, the bandage bulge under the gown. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got run over by a freight train,” I manage.
He huffs what might be a laugh. “That tracks.”
“What—” I start, then stop because the word rakes my throat raw. “What happened after…?”
“Short version?” Becket says. “You took a bullet. It missed your lung and the major arteries by about a thumb’s width, according to the surgeon. They took you into surgery, cleaned you out, sewed you up, and kept you under to let your body catch up.”
“How long?”
“Two days,” he says.
Two days. My stomach dips. “Marcy?”
“Fine,” he says immediately, his voice softening just a hair at her name. “Shaken. Pissed. Scared out of her mind. But not hurt. She hasn’t left your side much. Wes and I drag her to the cafeteria when she’ll actually move. Mostly she sits right there and glares at anyone who looks like they might try to unplug you.”
That loosens something tight in my chest. Gratitude, fear, love—too big a braid to separate.
“And Brett?” I ask, and there’s a grit in my voice I don’t bother to hide.
“RCMP came in and arrested him,” Becket says. “Marcy held her own. Got the gun away from him and everything before we got there.” He shakes his head. “He’s sitting in jail waiting to be transferred, and the Crown’s already licking their chops.”
I exhale slowly. It’s not relief exactly—relief is soft. This is heavier. A sandbag set down where I can see it. “Brett… he—” A flash hits: the sideways tilt of the world, Marcy’s hot breath at my ear as she said my name like a prayer and a curse. I blink hard. “Did he say anything?”
“Lawyered up,” Beck says. “But he filed that bogus assault complaint the day before. That’s not aging well. The police found the two former girlfriends with old restraining orders, out east. It paints a picture.”
I look at Marcy again. Her lashes flutter like a breeze is playing there, then her eyes open, pupils blown wide before they focus on me. She goes stock-still. The chair screeches back, and she’s upright, both hands gripping the rail.
“Landon.”
“Hey,” I say, and my voice cracks in the middle. I don’t care.
She leans over the bed, careful of the wires, and cups my jaw with a trembling hand. Her thumb grazes the bruise on my cheekbone—one I didn’t know I had—and her mouth wavers before it steadies into a smile.
“You’re awake,” she whispers, breath catching. “You’re actually—” She laughs, this wet, broken sound, then she’s hugging me as much as the rails allow, forehead pressed against mine.
I slide a hand up to the back of her head and hold on. The pain flares, the monitor tattles again, and I still don’t let go.
