Page 336 of Secret Shifters Next Door

Sam’s eyes cut across the room to me. He cleared his throat. “Blayne isn’t great. He came in with a severe stab wound and a gunshot wound to the chest. Multiple organ injuries. He lost…a lot of blood. I spoke with Tate Mills. He saw the whole thing. Antonio tried using some kind of special armor-piercing ammo on him. They found them in the gun after the battle was over. Even that couldn’t penetrate Tate’s dragon hide, though. He turned his attention to Steff James. Blayne saw his friend was about to get killed and charged Antonio. He distracted him, and that fucker turned the gun on Blayne.

“Blayne got a good shot in. Tore half of Antonio’s face off with his claws before he got knocked out. Tate tells me Antonio stood and tried to stumble off while trying to hold his face together. Tate…uh…well, I guess dragon fire is really hot. There weren’t even any bones left.”

Dad nodded slowly. “Got what he deserved, the bastard.”

Hearing Sam talk about what had happened to Blayne made it all seem to happen again in my head. Like I was reliving that moment in the ER when Steff had come in, holding his body. I had to clamp my hands together to keep them from shaking.

“How are we handling Antonio being missing? What about the survivors of his group?” Dad asked.

Sam nodded and sat on the stool beside Dad’s bed. “We’ve got a few guys on our payroll in the FBI. Government knows about shifters. Obviously. They keep it under wraps to prevent panic. They also knew there was a hunter organization growing in power, but they couldn’t pin them down. We made an, uh, anonymous call to one of our guys who’s pretty high up the ladder. They found all the surviving members tied up in an abandoned grocery store three counties over.

“Our contact says almost all of them are showing signs of psychological exploitation. Said it’s like what they see with former and current cult members. They’re being evaluated. It’s been difficult keeping that hidden. Detaining a few hundred people without it getting out to the media is not easy. There’s gonna be a report coming out. Something the Feds cooked up to explain some of the rumors leaking out about Antonio vanishing. No mention of us, though.”

Dad released a long sigh. “Good. I guess it’s the best we could hope for. Are any of Blayne’s boys around?”

Sam nodded. “Tate’s down the hall. He’s been here every day, waiting on the doctors to okay visitors for Blayne.”

“I want to see him.”

Sam left and Dad looked over at me. “Are you okay? I mean, seriously?”

I shook my head. “No. I don’t think so. I’m glad you’re okay, but I don’t know what I’ll do if Blayne doesn’t pull through. Daddy, I’m scared.”

Tate stepped through the door a few seconds later. His hulking frame pushed through the curtain that hid the bed from the door. “Mr. Francis,” he said with a nod.

“Call me Gio. We’ve been through enough together to be on first-name terms.”

“All right. Gio. What can I do for you?” He spoke to Dad, but his sad, weary eyes were on me.

“I want to make sure you and your families are all okay.”

Tate shrugged. “My mate and kids came back. When I called and told them what went down, they wouldn’t take no for an answer. Same with Miles. Celina couldn’t get back fast enough when she heard he was hurt. Everyone is okay. Miles was only in the hospital for two days. Overall? We’re okay. Physically. Mentally?” He looked back toward the door. I knew he was thinking about Blayne. “We’ve been better,” he finished.

“Thanks. Go on, son,” Dad said. “Be with your friends. I appreciate all you and your men did.”

“Same for you. I don’t know that we would have made it without your men there at the battle. Get some rest.” Tate locked his eyes on mine. “Don’t give up hope. Blayne’s a fighter. He’s not going to give up. I promise you, he’ll pull through this.”

The tears I’d been holding back finally spilled from my lashes and down my cheeks. I nodded, unable to say anything.

Tate, looking sheepish, ducked out the door. I had the sneaking suspicion he was holding back his own tears.

I reached over and took Dad’s hand again as I wept. My father held my hand and said nothing. He let me do what I needed to do.

Two days later,the doctor said he could discharge Dad, but he’d be on bed rest for at least a week and then physical therapyfor a month. The doc said he could resume his chemotherapy in a week.

“Thank God,” Dad said when the doctor left. “I’m tired of this bed and the crap they call food here. It’s awful. I can’t wait to get a nice greasy cheeseburger.”

“Nope. You didn’t survive a gunshot wound to die of a coronary. We’ll get something at least a little healthy,” I said.

His shoulders slumped. “Hell.”

I smiled. Hearing him grumble usually irritated me, but grumbling meant he was alive and getting better. I’d take a thousand days of grumbling and complaining versus the rest of my life without it.

That afternoon, a nurse came to help Dad get dressed and onto a wheelchair to take him to the car. As he nestled himself gingerly into the chair, Dad glanced at me.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Dad said. “You need to come home. You can’t keep staying here. It isn’t healthy, and all you’re doing is punishing yourself. They know to call you if anything changes. I promise. Blayne would tell you the same thing.”

Holding back another round of tears, I said, “I just wish they’d let us see him. It almost feels like he’s already gone.”

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