Page 105 of The Last Morgan
“Don’t talk,” she whispered. “Just stay with me.”
Corey motioned for the Doves. “Get him to the car—now! We’ll meet the ambulance on the road.”
Byron was lifted gently but swiftly, Doves moving with urgency. Lucy walked beside them, her fingers locked around Byron’s until she physically couldn’t keep up.
In the chaos, Corey turned to Damien. “Give me the box. Don’t let Jimmy out of your sight.”
Damien nodded grimly and handed over the small velvet case.
Lucy didn’t care about the box anymore.
She didn’t care about Jimmy.
She cared about the man who had taken a bullet for her.
In the SUV, Byron’s head lolled slightly, his breathing shallow. Lucy climbed in next to him, refusing to let go of his hand, she looked towards his eyes, and could have sworn they had a hint ofpurple to them, she wiped her tears and before she could take a second look his eyes had closed.
“Please don’t die,” she whispered.
The sirens grew louder as the ambulance approached. The door opened, and paramedics flooded out.
Lucy was pushed back as they worked, tears streaking her face, her hands still red with his blood.
They loaded him into the ambulance.
“I’m coming with you,” she said, firm.
The paramedic nodded.
She climbed in, still gripping Byron’s hand, whispering to him over and over.
“I love you. Don’t leave me. I love you.”
The doors shut.
And they were gone.
Lucy paced the hallway, which was long and sterile, her footsteps echoed with every panicked step. She moved from one end to the other, then turned and walked back again. At times, she stopped mid-stride, folded her arms tight across her chest, only to unravel again and begin pacing anew. Her thoughts were relentless.
Byron was in emergency surgery. The moment he dropped, the image had seared itself into her mind—his body slumped in the street, blood soaking through his shirt, the way his eyes lost focus before closing altogether. And now here she was, utterlyhelpless. She had fought men, cracked codes, uncovered years of lies—but this... this waiting was a different kind of torture.
Her hands trembled. She clenched them, dug her nails into her palms to keep herself grounded. Nothing worked.
The hospital air was cold. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The occasional nurse passed by, sympathetic glances offered but unspoken.
The elevator dinged. Lucy turned. It was Corey and Barnaby.
Corey’s face was tense but soft when he saw her. He walked toward her, then, without a word, pulled her into a tight hug. Barnaby hesitated, then joined in from the side, wrapping his arms around them both.
The three of them stood there in silence.
It was odd. None of them were huggers. But somehow, this—this moment—was exactly what Lucy needed to keep from shattering.
Corey pulled back slightly and leaned in. “We're here. For anything. Whatever you need.”
Barnaby nodded, unusually quiet. “Everything else can wait.”
Corey glanced at the bag slung over his shoulder—the box still safely tucked away—but he said nothing. Not now. Not while their sister was breaking from the inside out.
