Page 52 of The Shape of my Scar
By the time Thane emerged—hair wet, towel still around his neck—Zel was heating a tin of soup in a scratched saucepan.
Thane sat on the edge of the bed, face in his hands. His tattoos glistened with water, inked vines and runes curling down his chest and along his right arm.
He absently rubbed at the place over his heart.
Zel returned, placed a mug of soup on the side table, then sat beside him, holding his own cup. He’d showered, too, damp hair slicked back, wearing an old grey hoodie.
He didn’t say a word. All he had to offer was silence and company.
No one slept that night.
Chapter 25
They returned just after dawn.
It had been only a couple of hours, but it felt like days had passed. The corridors still smelled of antiseptic and cold metal, and the lights hadn’t dimmed since they left.
Cormac and Callum were exactly where they had been—Cormac, stiff in his chair, arms folded tight; Callum standing, now slouched near the vending machine, holding two lukewarm coffees. Neither looked up when the others arrived.
The four walked in together—Maro, Thane, Lirian, and Zel—quiet and subdued, their steps muted by fatigue and worry. Thane looked the worst of them. His face was still marked from Maro’s punch, his expression hollowed by something deeper than bruises. Maro walked slightly behind, subdued for once, the usual rage absent. Lirian’s gaze darted everywhere, calculating and uneasy. Zel was composed but a muscle ticked in his jaw.
None of them spoke.
The first threads of daylight crept in through the cracks in the old blinds, streaks of pale pink and silver-blue slanting across the polished hospital floor.
Jac had gone out earlier for coffee. He handed one to Cormac without a word and sipped his own like it might anchor him. He still hadn’t looked anyone in the eye.
Then, a soft voice broke the silence. “Excuse me?”
A nurse in navy scrubs stood at the edge of the waiting area, holding a tablet against her chest. Her hair was tucked into a loose bun beneath a pale blue cap. She glanced around. “I’m looking for Faolan Kearney’s brother?”
The four men who owed their lives to her in ways too deep to name stilled. It felt like something time stood still. None of them had heard her full name spoken aloud before.
Cormac and Callum stepped forward, shoulders straightening unconsciously.
“She’s stable for now,” the nurse said. “You can visit her, one at a time.”
Callum hesitated, then looked over his shoulder. His gaze landed on Thane. “This is her fiancé,” he said quietly.
Thane blinked. For a moment, the words didn’t register. Then his chest clenched. He stepped forward on legs that didn’t feel like his.
Cormac’s face darkened with fury, but he didn’t speak.
Thane understood; only family was permitted and he shouldn’t be allowed in.
But Callum had given him a gift. A mercy.
The nurse led Thane through the quiet corridors, past the sliding doors into the ICU. The hallway narrowed until they stopped at a glass cubicle. Outside, on a small shelf, sat a clipboard with her name, Faolan Kearney, scrawled in blue pen.
“Maybe the fiancé wants to go in first,” the nurse said softly.
She helped him into the mask, cap, gown, and gloves. His hands trembled as he followed her in.
He hadn’t realised how small she was.
She lay in a nest of tubes—one curling from her mouth to the ventilator that breathed for her, others snaking into her arms, her chest. Her skin was pale, drained of warmth. Shadows bruised her cheeks, mottled her clavicle and the edge of her neck, where the hospital gown gaped slightly.
The beeping of monitors was soft but relentless.
