47. Mason

Mason

I don’t move. I haven’t moved in nearly eight hours. Doctors and nurses have come and gone with shift change, each coming in and saying the same shit. She’s in good hands . My family has been in and out, all eyeing me warily before helping with whatever menial tasks they think are necessary. Even Puke showed up, flowers in hand that now sit on the table beside Hannah’s hospital bed. Little fucker even shed a tear.

Still . . . I haven’t moved.

The chair beside Hannah’s bed is uncomfortable as fuck, but I refuse to leave her. Not again. I attempted to sleep, but there’s too much disturbed energy circulating in my veins.

I lost her. Got her back. Nearly lost her again in the blink of a fucking eye.

Thank fuck Cortez is a bad shot.

He’s dead now, but it does nothing to offer any sort of comfort. Not until she’s awake and staring at me with those soft green eyes. Not until I fucking know she’s real and not just some figment of my imagination.

The shuffling of boots on the hospital floor behind me cause me to snap around, ready to rip someone to shreds. It’s been like this since we got here. I keep waiting for something else to happen; some proverbial shoe to drop, but it never does.

This can’t be over, can it?

“It’s me.”

Christian eyes me, a dark expression in his gaze when he steps into the dark room. It’s nearly dusk and the hospital is winding down, save for the nurses moving between the rooms.

“She know?”

I shake my head and he nods.

“Thank you . . .” I murmur. “Took a lot to go in there.”

“Took a lot to kidnap one of California’s most wanted criminals and make it look like an accident.”

I shrug. “I had help.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Alive,” I answer, though it feels like a lie. “Nothing major was hit, but she needed surgery to remove the bullet.”

Christian’s gaze is dark as he watches Hannah in the bed. “And the other?”

I know what he’s referring to, but every time I think about it, blinding red-hot rage slips through me.

“They did a rape kit. Nothing, but we’ll have to wait until she wakes up to know for sure.”

Christian’s face is grim and withdrawn. He’s always been dark, sticking to the shadows, but now, he looks like a ghost. I understand it.

Helplessness. There was no way that fucking plan should have worked, and yet, it did. Now that every threat has been removed, it’s hard to believe things could be normal.

Fuck, what even is normal?

“Any idea why Melissa Gaines did all this?”

“Fabricated this theatrical lie to send everyone on a wild fucking goose chase?” He waits for my answer. “Because she’s a narcissist. Probably had untreated bipolar tendencies that only got worse with the drugs.” I shake my head. Truthfully, I’ve been struggling to come up with my own resolutions to solve the mystery that is Melissa Gaines for the last eight hours. “She was so wrapped up in her own life and struggles that she was unreachable.”

“And Laura Gaines was more worried about her public image than being a mother.”

“Hannah and Melissa were dolls for her to play dress up with. Not people.”

“Got to hand it to you, Hannah’s a fighter. Even in there, she was ready to cut my dick off because she thought I was one of them. She’ll come out of this.”

I fucking hate that word. Fighter.

Fight to stay alive. Fight to be free. Fight for your next breath.

It’s all the same, isn’t it?

Just a euphemism used to bring about false hope.

“You’ll be safe tonight.”

“Your friend?”

He nods once but doesn’t elaborate. I don’t bother asking. Whoever Christian Cross’s “friend” is took out Cortez before any of us could even see where the shot had come from.

“Mila know you’re here?”

He pauses for a moment, before letting out a heavy breath.

“No.”

“You want her to know you’re here?”

“Haven’t decided.”

He looks as shitty as I feel. The dark circles under his eyes tell me he hasn’t slept in days, much like the rest of us.

Hannah was in that church for a total of eighteen hours. In that time, Christian flew in from God only knows where, Logan and I kidnapped a maximum security prisoner, and I nearly lost my fucking mind before I got her back.

I never imagined shit could hurt this bad until my heart started walking around outside my body in the form of a little redhead with the prettiest fucking smile I’ve ever seen.

“Because I have to say it,” I murmur, leaning back in the chair, holding tight to Hannah’s hand on the side of the cot, even if she can’t feel me. “I’ll fucking kill you if you hurt her.”

His jaw feathers and he looks down to Hannah before looking back at me.

“I’m doing this for her.”

“We going to see you again?”

He pauses, his shoulders stiff. “Probably not.”

And then he leaves.

I don’t know how much time passes because my eyes are threatening to close on their own, but when a soft hand startles me awake, I lurch, nearly toppling the chair over in my haste to whirl on whoever got into the room.

But it’s just a nurse.

“I’m not leaving her.”

She purses her lips together, giving me that stern motherly look as if she wants to scold me.

Then . . . her gaze softens and she places a hand on my shoulder.

“I was just going to let you know we’re bringing a cot for you to get some rest. Can’t have you sleeping in that, can we?” Her gaze racks over me. “You’re pretty big. It might be a little small, but you won’t have to leave her.”

She gives me a knowing wink before she disappears out the door.

A few moments later, an army cot is wheeled into the room and set up against the wall by the window. I fight sleep for another hour because I don’t want to let go of her hand, but when I nod off again, nearly falling out of the damned chair, I concede.

I move it closer to Hannah’s bed, just so I can fucking be near her and force myself to lay down. I watch her for awhile. The steady rise and fall of her chest. Like if I close my eyes, she’ll be ripped away from me again.

Unfortunately, my body isn’t on board.

The nurse was right. The cot’s small, but it doesn’t take long for me to close my eyes and finally, after more than twenty-four hours, I fall asleep.