Page 78 of Wilde and Deadly

A reminder that for the past eight hours, his little brother had been teetering on the goddamn edge.

Davey sat in the stiff hospital chair beside Elliot’s bed, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped together so he wouldn’t be tempted to punch something. Or someone. His jaw ached from how tightly he’d been clenching it, and his temples throbbed with the weight of too many sleepless hours.

Elliot looked small in that bed, pale against the white sheets, an IV taped to his arm, monitors tracking his vitals like he was still one wrong move from flatlining.

Davey had seen him injured before. Had seen him walk away from wreckage, bloodied but still smirking. Had watched him take a bullet in the shoulder and crack a joke about ruining a perfectly good shirt.

But this?

This was different.

Poison.

Someone had poisoned his brother.

Someone had gotten that close, slipped something inside their walls, inside their goddamn safe house, and nearly killed him.

If he’d eaten any more than a bite of that pizza…

Fuck.

A muscle in Davey’s jaw ticked. His fingers curled into fists.

Whoever had done this was already dead.

They just didn’t know it yet.

The door behind him creaked open, but he didn’t look up. Soft footsteps approached, and a strong hand settled on his shoulder. “Davey,” his father’s voice was steady, low. “Come eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered. He wasn’t leaving Elliot’s side for anything until his brother opened his eyes.

“That’s not the point,” Jude said.

His mother sighed as she stepped up beside him. “You can’t help him if you collapse from exhaustion.”

Davey exhaled sharply but knew better than to argue with his mom. She was a former prosecutor, and won any argument he’d try to start.

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to move.

“Five more minutes,” he said instead.

Libby’s hand was gentle when she smoothed his hair back, the touch so achingly familiar that for a moment, he was seventeen again, sitting on the floor of a hospital waiting room while doctors worked on his father after a mission had gone sideways.

Jesus, they’d always lived like this, hadn’t they? One disaster to the next, one hospital visit after another.

And he was so fucking tired.

“Elliot’s stable,” his mom murmured. “The doctor said?—”

“I know what the doctor said,” he cut in, harsher than he meant. “I just—” He swallowed the rest of the words.

He just needed to see Elliot wake up. The steady rise and fall of his chest wasn’t enough. He needed to see those eyes open, hear that smartass voice crack another joke.

Libby exchanged a look with Jude, then pulled up a chair beside him. “I remember the first time you held him,” she said, voice soft. “You were four, and you were so serious about it, like you understood right then that he was yours to protect.”

Davey squeezed his eyes shut. “I should have done a better job.”

“David Greer Elliot Wilde.” His mother rarely used his full name, but when she did, it hit like a hammer. “You did not do this to him.”

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