Page 84 of Collateral Damage
"I'm aware," I rasp.
"Are you? Because you're acting like this is a flesh wound. You’re one bad jolt or one deep-tissue bleed away from permanent nerve damage."
When I don’t reply, she frowns at me. “You’re impossible.”
I ignore the screaming protest on my right side and reach for her with my good arm. It’s a slow, agonizing reach that makes the room tilt, but I catch her hand, pulling her close until she’s braced against the side of the mattress. I can feel the heat radiating off her, a sharp contrast to the cold sweat sticking to my borrowed shirt on my back.
"So come with me," I say, my voice dropping to a rough, pained whisper. “Make sure I follow your orders.”
She looks down at me, the tension in her shoulders finally fracturing. I can see her weighing the medical risk against the reality that I’m not letting her out of my sight. "I need to check on my mother first," she says softly.
I lean forward—a move that makes the surgical pins in my shoulder feel like they're being torched—to steal a kiss. I only manage to linger for a second before the pain forces me to pull back, my breath hitching in my throat.
“Deal," I rasp. "Reese is already standing by with the jet. We’ll go visit and be at Jericho by lunchtime.”
A small, weary smile finally touches her lips. "You already planned this. You knew I wouldn't let you leave without me."
"Dad suggested it," I say, sinking back into the pillows as my vision blurs at the edges. The adrenaline of the argument is fading, leaving nothing but the raw ache of the surgery. "I just had the sense to agree with him."
She exhales through her nose—a sigh of genuine, tired exasperation. She looks thoroughly annoyed with me, but she doesn't pull her hand away.
“I suppose I’ll have to get used to this.”
I chuckle. “That’s the plan,” I say.
Ava
I’ve navigated Greenfield too many times to count, but today, the rhythm is off. And the heavy, silent presence of Silas at my shoulder changes the very molecular density of the air.
His eyes might be scanning the "safe" facility with the same tactical intensity, but he’s gray-faced and desperately needs a dose of morphine.
When we find her, my mother is a soft portrait against the harsh winter light of the window. In many ways, she resembles a fine porcelain sculpture that’s been left out in the rain—the details are blurring, but the elegance remains.
"Ava! You've hurt yourself," she says.
The relief of being recognized is almost too much. For a few precious minutes, I’m her daughter again, not a face she can’t place.
"Sit down then," she commands, her voice carrying a ghost of the matriarch she used to be. "Don't stand there on one leg like a flamingo."
I sink into the chair, leaning the crutches against the wall. Silas remains a few feet back, a silent sentinel, until she turns her sharp, fading gaze on him.
"Who's this?"
I hold my breath. My mother’s appraisal was always a gauntlet. Even now, with her mind frayed at the edges, she has an uncanny ability to see through the "suit" to the man beneath.
Silas doesn't hesitate. He moves into her space with a gentleness that catches me off guard. As he settles into the chair beside her, he shrinks his presence, bowing his head slightly so he isn't looming. He manages the agonizing weight of his braced right arm so fluidly that she doesn't even see the wince.
"Silas Hightower," he says. His voice is a low, soothing rumble, devoid of the command-center steel I’m used to. "It's good to meet you."
"You're very handsome," she says, her filter long gone.
Silas doesn't flush or give a canned response. He just lets a small quirk of a smile touch his lips. "Thank you, ma'am."
"Are you a doctor?"
"No."
"What do you do?"
