Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 99604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
I turned to Cormac. “Are you with the CIA?”
“Nobody’s with the CIA,” Rory said quietly, his focus still on Cormac. “What are you doing here?”
“I was looking for the silver boxes,” Cormac replied with a small smile.
Rory’s brow rose. “For the reward money?”
“Yeah, that’s what I do. I find things now.” Cormac’s expression didn’t change, but I swear, his aura appeared. Strong, green, and dotted with champagne bubbles. Magical?
I shook my head. Was I losing it? I didn’t see auras.
Rory gave a slow nod. “You always did have a talent.”
“What the hell is going on?” Donna burst out. I jumped a little. My sister never swore.
Rory rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “We might’ve worked together at one time,” he said. “But we don’t anymore.”
So Cormac wasn’t CIA now. Maybe he really did just wander around finding lost things.
“I’m somewhat of a private investigator,” Cormac said. “But yeah, I find things.”
“It always was your gift,” Rory agreed. He looked between us, then back at Cormac. “Why are you standing here now?”
The rain didn’t seem to bother Cormac a bit. “I heard Devlin sustained an injury and that the boxes might’ve been found.”
“You didn’t hear the boxes might’ve been found,” I snapped. “I didn’t tell anybody.”
“Yeah,” Cormac said, smiling faintly. “But I suspected. I suspected the tunnels, so it figured.” He sobered. “How’s your boyfriend?”
“We don’t know yet,” I said quietly.
Rory glanced toward the hospital doors. “Hey—the doc’s coming out.”
I pushed away from my sisters and ran inside. The hospital lobby glowed under pale lights, smelling of bleach and wet wool. I spotted Doc Springfield stepping through a side corridor, his white coat damp around the edges. He looked more like a kindly Santa Claus than a trauma doctor.
“Doctor?” I gasped.
Doc Springfield cleared his throat. “All right, everybody take a deep breath,” he said, his voice calm but carrying. The waiting room quieted, every eye on him. “Devlin’s out of surgery.”
I blinked. “What does that mean? What was wrong with him?”
The doctor reached out and patted my hand. He wore jeans and a T-shirt under his coat, the picture of quiet exhaustion. “We removed shrapnel from his side and are watching him for internal bleeding, but so far, so good.” He paused and took a slow breath. “Agent Devlin also has a concussion. But he’s stable now.”
Relief hit me like air after drowning. My knees nearly gave out, and I sank into the nearest chair, feeling the storm still raging outside even through the hospital’s thick glass walls.
“They did a CT scan,” Doc Springfield said. “I didn’t see any hematoma. That’s the good news. However, he hasn’t awakened yet. We’re not out of the woods until he awakens.”
“Can I sit with him?” I asked.
“Yes, but only you. I don’t want a crowd in there,” the doctor said.
I looked over at Saber. “Is that okay?”
He nodded. “He’d want it to be you.”
“Okay. I’ll call if I hear anything,” I told my dad, patting his arm before following Doc Springfield through the hall.
The hospital was quiet except for the echo of our footsteps and the low hum of machines behind closed doors. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and coffee gone stale. Outside, rain slapped the windows in uneven bursts, the sound reminding me how far from normal this day had become.
Aiden lay motionless in a bed in a dim room near the end of the corridor. Monitors beeped steadily beside him, one of them counting each breath. The soft light made everything look too still, too fragile.
“Should he be awake?” I asked.
“Give him a little time,” Springfield said.
I stepped forward, feeling like I didn’t belong there, like none of this should be real. Aiden didn’t belong there either. He lay on the bed, tan skin pale under the fluorescent light, his broad shoulders looking too wide for the hospital gown. A white blanket covered him to the chest, where bandages peeked from beneath the edge of the gown.
Cuts and bruises marred the hard angles of his face and neck. His dark lashes rested against his cheekbones, and those blue eyes—his impossible, electric blue eyes—were closed.
I sank into the chair at his bedside and pulled myself closer, my fingers wrapping around his hand. It felt warm and solid, too alive for everything else in the room. I ducked my head and prayed, words tumbling together in my mind until they stopped making sense. Finally, I leaned back but didn’t let go.
“Aiden, wake up,” I whispered. “Please.”
The machines kept beeping. The sound filled the room, relentless. I had never really believed anything could happen to him. He was always faster, stronger, sharper—untouchable. He was Aiden. Invincible.
“Please,” I said again, my voice cracking. “Wake up.”
He didn’t move.
I sat there through the slow creep of hours, answering texts from my sisters who were probably keeping the rest of the family from rushing in. I appreciated it.