Page 4 of The Final Cut

I bare my teeth at him. It’s ugly. Embarrassing. Animal. I would feel shame if there were room for anything except blood and sirens and Cal’s eyes slipping closed again.

Hands catch my shoulders from behind.

I twist hard, ready to scratch, ready to bite, ready to break fingers. Whoever has me shifts with the movement, close enough that my back hits a chest and the smell of gunpowder and old leather cuts through the copper in the air.

Deacon.

“Let go of me.”

His mouth is near my ear. “They need space.”

“I can help.”

“You already did.”

The words hit some soft, stupid part of me, and I hate him for finding it.

The paramedics take the space he makes. Gauze replaces my hands. More pressure. More movement. Cal’s body lifts, straps click, plastic crinkles, monitor leads flash in the terrace light.

My hands hang in front of me, red to the wrists. Empty. I make a sound I don’t recognize. Deacon’s fingers tighten once at my shoulders, then loosen because he knows better than to hold too hard right now.

“I’m going with him,” I say.

The male paramedic doesn’t look up from the stretcher. “Miss⁠—”

I turn on him. “That’s EMT Hart.”

Red hits his cheekbones. To his credit, he doesn’t back down. I wouldn’t either if I were in his position. I have the sense to recognize that even as my hands shake hard enough to flick blood onto the stone.

“You’re not an EMT right now,” he says. “You’re family.”

I shake my head. “I’m both.”

The female paramedic straps Cal’s arm down and looks between us. “One rider if there’s room. She can’t interfere.”

The male paramedic exhales through his nose. “We don’t have time for this.”

Deacon steps past me. “Then stop wasting it. Let her ride.”

The medic’s eyes cut to him, then to the gun still in Deacon’s hand.

Nash is there before the silence can turn into another problem. “She rides. He rides with her.” He points to Deacon. “I’ll follow.”

The female paramedic doesn’t blink. She lifts an eyebrow at her partner. “Load him.”

That ends it. They move.

I stumble after the stretcher, but my heel catches in the torn hem of my dress. Shiloh grabs me before I hit the ground. His hands are steady at my waist, too gentle for a night this violent.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

“I need to go.”

“I know.” His eyes search my face for one beat. Whatever he wants to say stays behind his teeth. “Go.”

Ever appears on my other side, pressing something into my hand. My phone. I didn’t know I’d dropped it.

“Battery at sixty-two,” he says. His voice is all control, but his fingers linger against mine. “I’ll keep eyes on the hospital feeds as long as I can get in. Shiloh and I are right behind you.”