Page 86 of The Captive
"Come on," I muttered, pressing harder against her wound, my hands slick with her blood. "Where the fuck are they?"
"Alexander," she breathed, her voice so faint I had to lean close to hear. "If I don't?—"
"No," I cut her off with brutal finality. "We're not having that conversation. You're going to be fine. You're going to live, and we're going to figure out what the hell we are to each other, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure nothing ever hurts you again."
"But if?—"
"NO." The word echoed off the stone walls, raw and desperate. "I said no, beautiful. I've never failed at anything that mattered, and I'm not starting with you."
Finally—finally—the distant wail of sirens cut through the night air, growing louder as emergency vehicles raced toward us. Car doors slammed, boots pounded across gravel, and then paramedics burst through the door.
Professional competence took over as they assessed the scene—Beatrice's body, the blood, my naked, wounded woman in my arms. But I couldn't let go. Couldn't release her hand as they worked around me, starting IVs, applying pressure bandages, preparing her for transport.
"Gunshot wound, abdomen," I reported, forcing professional detachment into my voice even as my world crumbled. Somehow, at some point, I’d managed to arrange my clothing. "Approximately fifteen minutes ago. Massive blood loss, possible internal organ damage, signs of shock."
"Sir, we need to move her now," the lead paramedic said gently. "You can ride with us, but we need to go."
I followed them to the ambulance, climbing in beside the stretcher as they worked to stabilize her. The ride to the hospital passed in a blur of medical terminology and the rhythmic beeping of machines keeping her alive.
I held her hand the entire way, watching her face for any sign of consciousness, any indication that she was still fighting. Her skin was cold, too cold, but her pulse still threaded weakly through my fingers.
The hospital wasa symphony of fluorescent lights and antiseptic smells. I paced the surgical waiting room like a caged animal, Aoife's blood still under my fingernails, my clothes stained crimson.
Five hours. Five fucking hours she'd been in surgery.
I'd called Ronan somewhere around hour three, when one of the doctors had uncharacteristically emerged to warn me about complications, about the possibility that they might not be able to stop the internal bleeding. Perhaps they’d seen what state I was in and decided to cut me some slack.
My voice had been steady when I'd explained the situation to Ronan, but inside, I was fracturing.
"Alexander."
I turned to find Ronan in the doorway, Cressida beside him, her eyes red, puffy and tired. He’d clearly told her, and this pained me to see. Travel and circumstances had left their mark on their faces—his usually immaculate appearance was now slightly dishevelled, too, tension and worry radiating from his frame.
"How is she?" he asked simply, and the lack of judgement in his voice nearly undid me.
I ran a hand through my hair, realising it came away sticky with dried blood. "Still in surgery. They don't know if..." I couldn't finish the sentence.
Ronan's eyes flicked to Cressida, and he deposited a gentle kiss on her head. Something passed between them—a silent communication, soft and tender. His hand on her shoulder, he pulled her close to him, letting her seek the comfort she so desperately needed.
"Cressida, love, I’m sorry to ask but could you please check with the nurses about getting Alexander some coffee? He looks like he needs it. I’ll join you soon and get you some tea." He caressed her back in soothing up and down motions.
Cressida nodded and he smiled at her as if assuring her everything was going to be all right. She squeezed Ronan's hand before walking toward the nurses' station, her heels clicking on the linoleum.
“Shit,” he murmured. Once she was out of earshot, Ronan's expression grew even graver. "I had to tell her. Beatrice… she was a bitch to her but blood is blood, you know?" He turned to me, guilt in his eyes. “That woman was insane… giving her to Patrick was a mistake.”
"I got her though. Should have done it months ago." No emotion in my voice. No regret.
Ronan closed his eyes briefly, processing. When he opened them, there was sadness in them—not for Beatrice, certainly, but for his Cressida.
"Cressida loved her once," he said quietly. "Before the madness took hold completely. But then the woman had become exceedingly cruel to her."
"Also, she tried to murder Aoife. Shot her point-blank while she was defenceless." My hands clenched into fists at the memory. "I'd do it again without hesitation."
"I know." Ronan glanced toward where Cressida stood talking softly with a nurse. " She'll grieve, even knowing what Beatrice had become, but still, she understands there was no choice. I feel she’s very clearheaded about it. More so than I would have been."
I collapsed into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline that had carried me through the shooting, the ambulance ride, the endless waiting was finally wearing off, leaving me hollow.
I looked up at him. “The O’Malleys. God, how are we making this right?”
