Page 112 of Knight

The bullet was the easy part. The real battle? Surviving Eva’s wrath.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Evangeline

Blood seeps through the gauze,soaking my hands as I press harder against Knight's shoulder. The coppery smell of it fills the air, mixing with the sharp scent of antiseptic. The table beneath him creaks with every move, but I can’t let myself focus on anything except keeping pressure steady. His breathing is too shallow, his skin too pale. His pulse feels weaker every time I check.

“Move to one side.” Bishop’s voice is calm, but there’s a distinct undercurrent of urgency in it.

I pull my hands back, and he takes over, replacing the gauze with a fresh piece. His hands are steady, but there’s tension in the set of his jaw.

Rook appears from the hallway, arms full of more medical supplies. He sets them down and gloves up without hesitation. Michael keeps pressure on the second wound, his knuckles white.

“This one is deeper, and should be looked at first.”

Victor steps in, gloves snapping into place as he grabs a suture kit. He spares a glance at me, then leans over the table. “We don’t have anything to numb the area, so you’ll need to keep him steady.”

Knight’s head lolls to the side, a faint groan leaving his lips. His eyes flicker open briefly, glassy and unfocused, before sliding shut again. I grab his hand, needing the connection more than he does.

“We should take him to a hospital.” Michael says. “This is something we need doctors for.”

“No hospitals,” Knight rasps. His eyes flicker open.

“You’ve been shot twice.” I lean closer to him. “You needrealdoctors, not us fumbling around.”

“They’ll ask questions.” Bishop’s voice is quiet. “Hospitals report gunshot wounds. We don’t need that kind of scrutiny.”

“But—”

“Nohospitals.” Knight repeats.

Victor doesn’t look up. The needle flashes, the first pull of thread through Knight’s torn skin sending a shiver down my spine. His breathing stutters, his chest rising unevenly as he groans softly. My grip on his hand tightens. It’s clammy, sticky with blood, but I don’t want to let go.

“How do you know what you’re doing?”

His focus doesn’t change, each pass of the needle stitching together what should never have been torn apart.

“Contrary to popular belief perpetuated by television and movie screens, high-profile hackers often get shot at. You learn quickly in our business how to patch yourself up.”

Blood pools beneath Knight, spreading out over the table and staining everything it touches. I can’t take my eyes off his chest, willing each shallow rise and fall to continue. The room feels impossibly small, every sound too loud—the creak of the table, the muted rustle of fabric, the occasional clink of metal tools.

“Eva, breathe.” Michael’s voice is soft.

I force myself to take a shallow breath. My lungs feel tight, like they’re full of glass shards, but I do it again. And again.

Knight’s eyes flutter open again, his gaze drifting aimlessly before settling on me.

“Still not dead,” he whispers.

“Don’t talk.” His fingers twitch faintly, as if trying to respond, and I hold on tighter.

Victor finishes with the side wound and moves seamlessly to the shoulder. “Hold steady.”

Bishop shifts his grip. No one speaks, the silence broken only by Knight’s labored breaths. I glance at Rook. He’s arranging the supplies, his movements efficient but tense. A faint tremor in his hands gives him away, but he says nothing. He doesn’t have to. Everyone in this room is feeling the same way.

Victor knots off the final stitch on Knight’s shoulder and steps back, stripping off his gloves.

“He’ll hold.” His voice is quiet. “Watch for fever. Keep him warm.”

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