Two nurses step into my path before I can make it more than a few feet. They’re calm but firm, hands raised like they expect me to lose control.
“Sir, please,” one of them says, trying to sound patient even though her eyes are already scanning the hallway for backup. “You have to let the doctors work.”
“I need to be with her,” I growl, “you don’t fucking understand! She needs me!”
“She’s in good hands,” the redhead says, her tone confident. “You need to go sit and wait in the lobby like everyone else.”
I push through them without thinking, the panic clawing too hard at my throat to care about consequences—until a man shockingly taller than me steps directly into my path. He’s all broad shoulders and authority, with his uniform pressed, and his stance squared like he’s done this dance a hundred times. His hand already rests near his belt, fingers twitching like he’s ready to grab the radio—or worse.
“Sir,” he warns, “if you don’t calm down right now, you’re going to be escorted out of the building.”
My fists tighten at my sides, the muscles in my arms twitching with restraint I barely have left. I take a single, reluctant step back, side-eying the guard.
The lobby isempty and painfully quiet except for the voices shrieking from the TV. The walls are painted that sickly shade of green hospitals love to pretend is calming, but all it does is make my skin crawl.
A television blares in the background with news of another SigAlert on the 405, followed by a weather report delivered by a chirpy meteorologist who sounds far too cheerful for the relentless rain coming to Los Angeles.
I sit in the far corner, hunched over with my elbows on my knees, as I bury my hands deep in my hair, pulling at the strands with anxious fingers.
Fuck, Catalina, hold on.
The double doors whoosh open to my left. The soft, mechanical slide feels too gentle for what’s breaking inside me.
Footsteps hit the hallway floor, each step growing louder until they slide to a stop in front of me. My eyes fall to a pair of fresh white sneakers, planted firmly.
Maverick.
Maverick’s eyes are wild, he’s clutching his chest, breathing erratically. Reed’s not far behind, his face tight, pale, unreadable in a way that terrifies me more than anything else.
Right on cue, like fucking hurricanes, Layla and Amelia barrel through the entrance. They’re in pajamas, with messy hair, no makeup, and panic written all over their faces.
They come at me fast—four voices crashing into each other in a storm of panic and accusation.
“Where is she!?”
“Is she okay!?”
“What the fuck happened!?”
Amelia’s eyes slice through the noise, landing on me with accusation. “Why the fuck are you here?”
Layla crosses her arms. “Yeah, when we saw her last she didn’t elaborate on Amelia’s question during her celebration, so to us, you guys are just fucking.”
I look up slowly. My hair’s damp, sticking to my forehead in tangled waves, like I’ve been running through hell and didn’t bother to look in a mirror before climbing out. My face is pale, eyes are bloodshot, wild, the kind of eyes that haven’t blinked since they watched the person they love stop breathing. My hands are fists in my lap, shaking with rage I can’t direct anywhere useful.
“Excuse me?” I rasp, holding on to the tiny bit of restraint I have left before I snap.
Amelia’s face twists with something. “We thought this was just some fling,” she says, quieter now. “Some meaningless thing that started at your ranch.”
I laugh, but there’s no humor in it.
“Do I look like a man who’s here for a fucking fling?” I ask, the words coming out sharp. “You think I’d be standing here looking like this if that woman didn’t shatter my fucking soul?”
She takes a half step back, her mouth opens like she wants to take it back.
Too fucking late.
Maverick tries to cut in. “Carter?—”
