Page 59 of Anchor
Then heaviness. Something in her chest was tight and full. A tube was down her throat. Panic rose before she could stop it. Her hands twitched against the sheets, restrained only by weakness, not straps.
“Hey, hey… Claire.” Reid’s voice was right there, low and steady. A hand closed gently around her wrist, grounding her. “Easy. You’re safe. Don’t fight it.”
Her eyes fluttered open. The world blurred—white lights, shadows, and machines. Then it sharpened, and there he was. Black uniform shirt and pants, five o’clock shadow, eyes red but unbroken.
Tuck moved in from her left, drawl calm as ever. “Welcome back, darlin’,” he said, already checking her monitor. He thumbed her pulse line, then the IV drip. “Pain’s gotta be spikin’. I’m pushin’ meds now.”
Her throat burned, and her body was rigid. She tried to speak but only managed a muffled gag around the tube. Her eyes flashed with frustration, panic threatening again.
Reid leaned in, close enough that she could see the steel edge of his control and the softer layer he saved only for her. “Don’t talk, sweetness. Just blink for me. Once for yes, twice for no. Got it?”
She gave one slow blink.
“Good.” His thumb smoothed across her hand, quieting the tremor. “You’re here. You’re okay.”
Tuck bent to eye level, his big frame gentler than it had any right to be. “We’re keepin’ you steady. Blood counts holdin’; pressure’s comin’ up. You ain’t outta the woods, but you ain’t alone either.”
The meds hit quickly, warmth flooding her body, pain blurring at the edges. Her lashes flickered against her cheeks.
Reid’s voice was the last tether. “Sleep if you need to. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
Her body wanted to fight, to demand answers, but the fight ebbed as the drugs pulled her under. She let go, the tube hissing steadily. Reid’s hand in hers was the last thing she knew.
TWENTY
WAITING ROOM / OVERWATCH CORRIDOR – 2017 HOURS
The chair had become a post. Reid hadn’t moved far from it in hours, only shifting when nurses came in or when Tuck adjusted the lines. Claire was quiet again, riding the steady hum of machines.
The door eased open, a shadow slipping through with a soldier’s care. Apex—Dean Kozlow—entered, still in the same gray shirt from that morning, shoulders tight, jaw wired shut with the strain of too much bad news.
Reid straightened. “Talk.”
Dean dropped into the chair across from Reid, leaning forward, forearms braced on his knees. “Campus is locked down. Killian’s level-three team’s running point. University police are playing ball, but the press is everywhere—cameras on every damn corner, students livestreaming like it’s a reality show. Rumors are spiraling.”
Reid didn’t respond. His gaze shifted once toward Claire’s closed hospital room door.
Dean caught it but kept going. “NSA showed up. Two suits, badges out. Came in hot—they wanted to move her into custody. Heather was already there.”
He paused, jaw clenching. “She didn’t ask if Claire was alive. Not once. Didn’t even look toward the room. Just talked headlines, press angles—optics.”
Reid went still. Then he slowly leaned back, like the weight had finally settled on him. His hand dragged down his face.
Dean’s voice dropped a notch. “Ian shut it down. Hard. Stared those NSA boys in the eye and told them to walk. Then he pulled a favor—high up. She’s safe here. Chase Med’s locked. Heather’s boxed out.”
The words hung in the space between them, solid, immovable. But they didn’t clear the image from Reid’s mind—Claire, bleeding, barely breathing. And her mother, already working spin control.
He exhaled roughly. “She’s barely alive in there… and her mother never even asked.”
Dean didn’t reply, just stayed where he was. Silent. Still.
The clock tickedlike a hammer inside Reid’s skull. He hadn’t moved from the chair outside Claire’s room, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight. The door clicked softly.
Ian Chase stepped into the hallway, his presence filling the area the way thunder fills sky. No suit jacket, just shirt sleeves rolled once, tie pulled loose. His gaze landed on Reid, steady and unyielding but not without weight.
He sat down across from him, hands folded, mirroring Reid’s stance like they were both bent under the same invisible burden. “She’s still critical,” Ian said finally, not a question, but a truth.
Reid nodded once. His jaw worked, but he said nothing.
