Page 56 of Under His Protection

“Alexander?” I whisper, my voice a touch too loud in the hushed room.

He winces, a grimace crossing his face. His breath hitches, shallow and uneven. I take his hand in mine. He’s surprisingly warm. His skin is clammy, damp with sweat.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“Like I’ve been run over by a truck,” he says, a weak smile on his lips.

“You were lucky to survive that,” I say. I bite my lip, trying to keep the tears at bay.

The silence in the room feels like it’s choking me; the only sound is the relentless beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor, a metronome keeping time. It’s as if the room itself is holding its breath, waiting.

There are muffled sounds of hushed voices drifting in from the hallway. Maybe the police officers are taking a break, grabbing a cup of coffee, or perhaps they’re discussing the shift change. For a moment, I envy their normalcy, their ability to step away from the chaos, even for a few minutes.

They’ll go home tonight, sleeping safely next to their wives or husbands.

“Michelle—” Alexander says, his voice a choked rasp. I lock eyes with him, and there’s a pain in them.

Michelle’s face, a mask of frozen terror, flashes before my eyes. The anger inside me is a wildfire, a raging inferno. The Raven. He did this. He took her from us. I want to scream, to tear down every wall in this room, to tear down every wall in this city, to make him pay. But for now, all I can do is hold onto the icy calm that’s a thin veneer over the violent feelings raging within me.

“Do you remember?” I ask. “Michelle— she’s—”

He nods slowly, his jaw clenching, a single tear tracing a path down his bruised cheek. It’s the silence that speaks the loudest. It’s the silence of the fallen, the silence of the loss, the silence of a love for a sister that was cruelly stolen.

I shift in the uncomfortable plastic chair, the coldness of the metal frame seeping into my bones. The starched and stiff sheets on the bed feel scratchy beneath my touch.

I want to reach out, to hold him close, to absorb his pain into my own. But I can’t. Not now. He needs his strength. He needs to heal. And so do I.

Nightfall paints the hospital windows a deep indigo, the city lights twinkling like a million distant stars. I curl up in the chair beside Alexander’s bed, my hand resting lightly on his, our fingers intertwined. Exhaustion pulls at me, but sleep is a fleeting dream, chased away by the shadows of our past.

The plastic oxygen mask muffles Alexander’s rasping breathing, making it seem like he’s breathing underwater, far away, a whisper from a world I can’t reach. I watch him, my hand resting lightly on his. His skin is warm beneath my touch.

Did I sleep? I must have.

A muffled thump from the hallway shatters the quiet. My eyes fly open. I sit up, my heart hammering against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate to escape.

What was that?

Every nerve ending in my body screams with a raw, primal awareness. I strain to hear, my gaze darting around the room, seeking the source of the sound. Another noise, a soft scrape against the linoleum floor outside, just beyond the door.

Beside me, Alexander stirs. His eyes flicker open, their blue depths clouded with pain and a sudden, sharp alertness. He pushes himself up on one elbow, wincing as a grimace of pain twists his features. The movement rustles the starched white sheets, the sound amplified in the stillness.

“Did you hear that?” His voice is raspy, a mere thread of sound.

I nod, my throat too tight to speak.

Our gazes lock, a silent conversation passing between us. He doesn’t need to speak the words; I can see the question in his eyes, the warning lights that flash on and off. Someone is out there.

A figure passes by in the hallway, a shadow in the harsh light. I can’t make out his face, only his broad shoulders. Monroe? My heart skips a beat. What’s he doing here? He’s not on shift.

My eyes flick to the lilies on the table, stark white against the sterile walls, and then back to the hallway window. The shadow’s gone, but my unease lingers.

My mind replays Monroe’s words, “You saved Alexander.”

How does he know? I haven’t spoken a word about the warehouse. Not a whisper. I’ve been here the whole time, guarding Alexander’s sleep, his breaths, his life. Harvey said the debriefing could wait. I just gave him the information, a barebone map of the warehouse and its location. But how did Monroe know? The pieces don’t fit.

My gaze stays on the vase of flowers on the bedside table. The lilies from Officer Monroe.

“You think?” I whisper.

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