Page 62 of Run Wild Omega

“Daniel’s a lawyer. Mara has connections in media—she dealt with this kind of thing after Jonathan. Between the two of them, they can start pushing back. Get the real story out. The meteorological data, the SAR reports, the fact that the cornice was a documented, unpredictable hazard.”

“It shouldn’t be her job to fight a PR war from a hospital bed,” Dylan mutters.

“No,” Miles agrees. “It’s our job.”

The three of us look at each other. Something passes between us—unspoken, but clear.

We’ll handle it. All of it. The reporters, the comments, the headlines. We’ll shield her from as much as we can.

Because that’s what a pack does.

The monitor beeps.

Maggie’s head snaps toward the screen. “Pressure’s at thirty-three. Still climbing, but slowly.”

My stomach twists. “How much time has it been?”

“Fifty-three minutes.”

An hour and seven minutes left.

I reach out and take Tess’s hand. Her fingers are cold, limp in mine. I wrap my hand around them, careful of the IV line, and hold on.

“You’re going to hike again,” I tell her, my voice low enough that only she and the monitor can hear. “You’re going to stand on that ridge and look down at this whole stupid valley and laugh. You’re going to lead those annoying corporate guys up the mountain and make them regret every penny they paid you. And you’re going to do it with both legs.”

Her chest rises and falls. The monitor beeps.

I don’t let go.

At the hour-and-forty-minute mark, Margaret and Henry Hartwell arrive.

I hear them before I see them—Tess’s mother’s voice, high and tight with fear, echoing down the hallway. Maggie meets them at the door, and I catch fragments of her explanation through the glass.

“—stable but critical… monitoring compartment pressures… conservative approach… two more hours minimum…”

The door opens. Margaret comes in first, her salmon coat still dusted with snow, her eyes red-rimmed. Henry follows, his broad frame filling the doorway, his face drawn and gray.

The moment Margaret sees Tess, she makes a sound—a small, wounded noise that breaks something in my chest.

“Oh, baby,” she whispers, rushing to the bed. She doesn’t push past me. She doesn’t try to move me. She just leans over the railing, cupping Tess’s face in her hands, her thumbs brushing her daughter’s pale cheeks. “Oh, my sweet girl.”

Henry stands behind her, one hand on her back. He looks at me over her head. His eyes are wet, but his voice is steady.

“Tell me everything.”

I stand up. “Mr. Hartwell⁠—”

“Henry,” he corrects. “We’re past formalities, Wyatt.”

I tell him. Everything. The surgery, the hemorrhage, the transfusion, the compartment syndrome, the decision we made to wait. I don’t sugarcoat it. I don’t hedge. He deserves the truth.

When I finish, he’s quiet for a long time. Margaret is still holding Tess’s hand, murmuring softly to her, but I can tell she’s listening to every word.

“You made the right call,” Henry says finally. “Waiting. I would have done the same.”

Relief floods through me. “I wasn’t sure⁠—”

“You were here. You had the information. You made a measured decision based on the doctor’s recommendation.” He meets my eyes. “That’s all anyone could have done.”