27. Scarlett

I feellike I'm watching Lyssa come undone before my eyes as Hadria's life slips away with every beat of her heart.

The strongest, toughest, best woman I know, has a look of such raw anguish that it's almost too much to bear. And I see the bond between Lyssa and Hadria laid bare now. Hadria is more than just Lyssa's leader, more than a partner in crime.

She's Lyssa's family. Her sister. And I can't let Lyssa lose that.

Not like I lost Adam.

I look frantically around the room, my eyes landing on the medical supplies cabinet in the corner. I rush over and yank it open, relief surging as I take in the fully-stocked array of equipment. I grab what I need and hurry back.

"Move over, give me some space!" I order the group huddled around Hadria's prone form. It's not just Lyssa and Aurora in here—it feels like half the Syndicate has crowded in. And no one moves a muscle. Of course they don't—they're all too consumed by shock and fear to heed my command.

Ricky even shoves me back with a rough hand. "Get the fuck away from her," he snarls.

"I have medical training," I say evenly, meeting his piercing glare without flinching. I turn to Aurora. "I have medical training," I say again, louder, insistent, until she looks up at me, terror in her eyes. "More than anyone else here, judging by the fact that you're all just standing around staring at her while she's dying." I sound harsh, but I know that shock is what has made them inactive, not a lack of skills. And I need to get through to them. To Aurora. "I can try to save Hadria, or you can let her die. Your choice."

"Please," Lyssa chokes out, her voice little more than a broken whisper. "Please, Suzy, let her try."

Aurora stares at me, but then, with a terse nod, she acquiesces. I don't waste a second, grabbing the portable blood typing kit and pricking Hadria's finger. The blood on her body would be more than enough, but if I'm doing this, I'm doing it right. I don't know if Lyssa was shot too, and I don't want to chance that the result will be wrong.

But when that result appears, my heart still sinks. O-negative. A universal donor—but it can only accept O-negative blood.

"Who here is O-negative?" I ask urgently, scanning the assembled faces with rising trepidation. The ones who do know their type are no help, and the others just stare blankly at me. Comprehension slowly dawns on Lyssa—an A-positive—her expression morphing into one of heart-rending desperation.

"Can't you just test them all?"

"There's no time."

"Can't you just give her a different type?" Aurora begs.

"The risk of hemolytic reaction is too—" I start, but all I see is confusion in Aurora's beautiful face. "Listen…I'm O-negative," I tell her quietly. "I can donate to her."

"Bullshit," Ricky says. "This is some trick. She's trying to kill the Boss."

"If I wanted her dead, I'd only have to wait a few minutes," I snap at him, regretting the words as soon as they're out of my mouth, because they won't help anything.

But when I look back at Aurora, she's stopped crying. The whole room seems to hold its breath as we wait for her response.

"Do it."

I spring into action, sterilizing the needles and tubing with movements that quickly come back through muscle memory from my years in med school. My hands are steady as I set up the transfusion kit, and for a second it feels as if no time has passed at all. Mario gently ushers the rest of the Syndicate from the room until only Ricky, Lyssa, and Aurora remain, watchful and worried at the edge of my peripheral vision.

"Lyssa," I murmur, meeting her red-rimmed gaze as I gesture to the array of tubing and needles. "I might need your help to get the needle situated in my own arm."

She moves without a moment's pause and follows my directions with equally steady hands, her fingertips brushing over the sensitive skin of my inner elbow, raising goosebumps in their wake. I can't help the slight shiver that runs through me. Because despite everything—the blood, the bullets, the secrets and lies and open wounds between us—I always crave her touch.

With everything in place, I settle next to Hadria and watch the steady drip of my blood flowing into her veins, and then I instruct Lyssa on how to treat the wound itself. At last, I turn to the others.

"I've done all I can do. We still need a doctor."

The instruction to make calls to anyone and everyone with medical training goes right around the Syndicate, but it's Aurora, her hands trembling, who finally manages to get an answer to her call. And when the person on the other end seemingly refuses again to come, the whole room goes silent as Aurora's voice raises in response.

"Listen to me, you cowardly asshole," she yells into the phone, her whole body shaking with fury. "The Syndicate will do far worse to you than whoever bribed you to stay away. Get your ass over here right now, before I send someone to detach your fucking kneecaps and drag you!"

All of us hear the frightened squeak of assent. Aurora sags in relief. "They're coming," she murmurs, after hanging up.

Ricky has been lurking nearby, tracking my every move with an intensity that would make a lesser woman squirm. But my focus stays on Hadria, watching her vitals, adjusting the flow of blood, and praying to a God I don't believe in.

But gradually, Hadria's pallor begins to improve, more color seeping back into her cheeks as her chest rises and falls with deeper, more robust breaths. By the time the doctor arrives—a wiry, nervous-looking man clearly rattled by Aurora's threats—Hadria is still frighteningly pale, but her condition has undoubtedly improved.

"Smart," he murmurs to me with grudging approval as he examines Hadria's wound, then the transfusion set up, checking my handiwork with efficiency. I've given enough, he says. Saved her life. But his brow furrows as he looks me over quickly, too. "You need to rest up, now. Eat something to regain your strength before you keel over yourself."

I wave off his concern, forcing a casual indifference I don't feel in the slightest. "I'm fine."

But the instant I get to my feet, a wave of dizzying vertigo washes over me, my vision whiting out as my legs turn to rubber beneath me. A pair of strong arms lock around my waist before I can crumple into an undignified heap, steadying me as the room careens wildly.

"I've got you," Lyssa murmurs. "Let's get you to a bed."

The rest of the Syndicate members present have turned their focus back to Hadria, their relieved murmurs fading as Lyssa guides me from the medical bay. I find my feet, but her hand lingers, splayed against the small of my back, long after it's strictly necessary—a silent tether of reassurance.

And I'm grateful for it.

An unfamiliar sense of pride blooms in me as we ascend the stairs. It's a feeling I haven't experienced since…well, since longer than I can remember. Not since those golden days before death and self-destruction became my only companions. Before I turned from wanting to save lives to snuffing them out.

If the Syndicate still plans to kill me after this…then at least I've done one good thing.

We reach a bedroom door and Lyssa ushers me inside, through a living area and into a bedroom, where she makes me get in and tucks me in tenderly.

Then she leans in, her soft lips brushing my forehead in the barest whisper of a kiss before trailing lower to sweep over my parted lips. It's the most fleeting of caresses but it warms me to my core.

She pulls back and says tenderly, "I'm gonna get you something to eat, like the Doc said. You stay here. Rest."

I can't deny it feels good to be vertical. My head spins a little less. When I hear the door softly swing open again five minutes later, I smile before I open my eyes.

"I hope you brought something good. I'm starving." But the smile dies when I open my eyes, because it's not Lyssa.

It's Ariadne, staring at me with those empty eyes, stalking fast across the room to where I'm struggling to even sit up against the heavy blankets.