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Oh yeah, bleeding. Shit. I clamp a hand over the wound on my biceps and groan between my teeth. Fucking hell, it feels as if my bone is shifting in my flesh, trying to push out.
Broken bone, my mind whispers.
The hell, who cares? Need to check on Ray. I struggle to lift my head
that suddenly weighs about a ton, and she’s right there, beside me. When did she move?
“Storm,” she says, and her voice is the best sound in the world. It’s low and warm and concerned, free of pain. Which she’s unharmed, and a weight lifts off my chest. She puts her hand over mine. “Let me see that wound.”
So I let her, let her roll me on my side and check my leg. Sure it hurts like hell when she presses her hand over the wound there, and I wonder just how screwed I am this time, but fuck, it doesn’t matter.
Not if she’s here with me.
***
Hawk has taken over, directing the security, the police, the doctor and nurses as they stream in and out of the suite.
He can’t help it, it’s in his nature—as it is in mine, and between us and Rook, we have always fought for the top. But now? Now I’m damn glad he’s taken control, because my brain has taken a hike and is desperate to shut down for a while.
Not that I’ll let it. Apart from the shooting and the guy the police arrested—wounded in the chest, from Raylin’s bullets, but he’ll survive, it seems—there’s still the whole mess with my uncle and the will and the fucking key to resolve.
Find answers now, finish with the triad business, put those after me behind bars—then sleep. When it’s all said and done. It’s my mission, and it’s what’s keeping me going.
That and the doctor putting stitches in my arm and then my leg. The local anesthetic is working, so that I only feel the pressure and tugging as he patches me up, but my whole body hurts too much to relax.
A good thing at this point.
“You need to go to the hospital, have an x-ray done on your arm. I don’t like the way it looks. You’ve also lost a lot of blood,” the doctor is saying, her face creased with concentration as she puts away the needle and thread, and a burly nurse steps in to bandage everything. “You may feel a little dizzy for a few days. Don’t drive, and I’d recommend bed rest for a day or two, until you regain your strength. And take the antibiotics I’m prescribing you.”
Yeah, right. “Sure.”
She gives me a long look that means she can see right through my lie. Must be a doctor thing. “I mean it, Mr. Jordan.”
“He will rest,” Raylin says. “Don’t worry. I’ll see to that.”
I arch a brow at her. Can’t tell if she’s serious or not. Her smile is faint, slightly strained. It’s been a tough couple of days.
“You have more lives than a feral cat.” Hawk is walking toward us with a swagger best seen on a cowboy than the heir to millions.
Yeah, I’m one to talk, I know. Then again, the three years I spent away from all this left its mark on me.
“Storm. Have you gone deaf, man? Are you listening?” Hawk is waving a hand in my face. He’s sat down on his heels in front of me. “Hey.”
Have I mentioned my brain is kinda doing its own thing tonight? Today. The sky outside is a light gray. The breeze coming through the broken balcony door is cold.
“What?” Raylin is sitting next to me on the sofa, and I lean into her.
“I said, good job getting the shooter.”
“Wasn’t me. That was Ray. She’s the reason I’m still alive.”
His light eyes flick to her and emotions flash across his face—suspicion, surprise. Approval. “Good.”
“What about the shooter?” Raylin puts a hand on my uninjured leg, distracting my already scattered brain.
“Nothing on him yet. No documents, no tattoos, no nothing. He’s unconscious, so can’t do anything before he wakes up.” He shoves dirty blond hair from his face. “If left to me, I’d waterboard him until he woke up, but the docs wouldn’t let me.”
“He has to be a hitman,” Raylin says, “someone who won’t be missed, that nobody knows. You wouldn’t be able to connect him to the mastermind behind this plan. They’re too clever for that.”
