Page 55 of Under His Protection

“Alexander—-he’s been shot. We need a hospital. A safe hospital.”

“St. Jude’s,” Harvey says, his voice sharp. “It’s secure. Get there as fast as you can. I’ll meet you there.”

“Thank you, Harvey,” I whisper.

I hang up the phone. We might be wounded or hunted, but we are alive. And we have each other.

But the memory of Michelle’s lifeless eyes haunts me like a phantom limb. It’s a knife twisted in my gut, a pain that will scar me, a burn that will never fade. And I can’t even imagine what Alexander must carry now.

Chapter 20

The Hospital

The hospital room’s sterile white walls seem to assess and watch me. The steady beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor has become a harrowing sound. On one hand, with every beep, I know he’s alive. On the other hand, I worry that the sounds will stop any minute, and he’ll be gone.

Alexander lies on the bed, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath, a network of tubes and wires snaking across his bruised and battered body. An oxygen mask covers his nose and mouth, muffling the rasp of his breath. Even in sleep, his brow is furrowed, his lips pressed into a tight line.

The doctor has assured me the bullet has missed his vital organs and that he will recover. But the sight of him, so vulnerable, so broken, makes my stomach clench.

I shift in the uncomfortable chair beside his bed, my aches and pains fading into the background as I stare at him. I don’t know how long has passed, how many hours, or days? More? It all feels like a blur.

The door creaks open, and Harvey steps into the room, his stern face worn and tired. His blue uniform is rumpled, the fabric pulled tight across his shoulders. His gray hair is tousled, and dark circles underscore his eyes. I flinch, a leftover instinct from the chaos of the last few days.

At least Harvey is safe, and that means, for now, I am, too.

He is followed by Monroe, the guy I met at the station. He’s carrying a vase with lilies, and his tall frame seems to fill the doorway. Smiling at me, Monroe straightens his uniform, his badge gleaming on his chest. His sandy hair is neatly combed, and his blue eyes are bright and alert.

I guess he’s getting more sleep than Harvey.

“Ava,” Harvey says, his voice low, his gaze moving from me to Alexander. He pulls me into a rough hug. Something pricks behind my eyelids, a familiar ache that threatens to spill over. I hug him back.

“How is he?” Monroe asks, putting the flowers on a table near Alexander’s bed. “My wife made me bring these.”

I hate lilies. Their scent reminds me of my parents' funeral, a heavy, suffocating reminder of loss. The aroma makes me gag, but I force a smile, trying to appear composed.

“He’ll be okay,” I say. “The bullet missed his vital organs.”

I glance at Alexander, and my shoulders relax just a fraction, but the fear, a coiled serpent, still lurks in the shadows of my mind.

We aren’t safe. Not yet. Cole might be alive and coming for us.

Monroe steps closer, placing a hand on my shoulder, his touch surprisingly gentle. “You did good, Ava,” he says, his blue eyes meeting mine, a flicker of something—knowing in their depths. “You saved him.”

But I couldn’t save Michelle.

“Is Cole—is he under arrest?” I ask.

Harvey shakes his head, his expression grim. “The building and warehouse were empty when we arrived. He’s gone.”

My heart sinks. Gone. He is out there, plotting his revenge, and we are sitting ducks in this sterile, brightly lit room. The two guards Harvey has posted outside feel like a joke against whatever the Raven has built.

I haven’t told Harvey about the girls and Katerina. I’m scared for them, terrified that they’ll be left unprotected if they go into custody. They are now okay, safe with Isaac and a few more men loyal to Alexander at his safe house.

“Don’t worry, Ava,” Monroe says, narrowing his eyes. “We’ll find him. He won’t get away with this.” His eyes linger on me for a moment, a strange intensity in their depths, before he turns and follows Harvey out of the room.

“Stay put, Ava,” Monroe says, pausing at the doorway. He smiles and gestures to the men outside, “You’ll be safe here.”

The air in the hospital room smells like antiseptic and ethanol. The clock on the wall ticks and ticks and ticks, and each second, a small hammer blows against my head. I watch Alexander sleep; his face is a distorted canvas of bruises and cuts. He stirs, his eyelids fluttering open, his gaze meeting mine, a flicker of recognition in their depths.

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