by Alex Lidell
Just when I manage to force a breath into my lungs, the neighbor’s Rottweiler rushes to the fence, barking his head off and scaring the bejesus out of me for the second time in as many minutes. I barely keep from squawking, my heart flying into my rib cage. And it’s a good thing I do, because the window beneath which I huddle opens a moment later.
“Shut your fucking dog up or I’ll do it for you,” a man hollers, slurring. “No respect for any goddamn person on this fucking street.”
I flinch as I hear the sound of something breaking, my mind flashing back to a cheap flower vase my mom kept buying at the dollar store over and over. The memories make me light-headed for a moment, but I pull myself together enough to focus. I need to get out of here. Quietly. Quickly.
Still on my hands and knees, I breathe quietly through my nose until the sounds at the window recede, then start edging away, staying close to the wall.
A thud sounds inside the house, as if something weighty has been dropped. Then the distinctive mewling cries of a child. I go motionless at once, holding my breath and lying flat in the tall unkempt weeds that pass for a lawn around here. Nausea washes over me as the sobs continue, the helplessness of the whimpers drilling a hole down to my core. Because I’ve been that child. Wounded and alone. Injured by a man who was supposed to keep me safe.
Despair tightens my throat as shouting rises again, the arguing adults yelling over each other while a set of little feet patters down the steps. Something that sounds frighteningly like a screen door squeaks open, and the childish sobbing becomes clearer. Outside. The child is outside. Just around the corner of the house from me.
Heart hammering in my ears, I edge around the corner toward what passes for a backyard. The child is there, a little boy with a bloody lip and an arm bent at a bad angle, curled into a ball by a sprawling bush. His jeans and polo shirt are ripped and stained, and he’s crying into the ground as if afraid of making too much noise. Of bringing worse things down on himself.
Staying low, I rush over to the child, crouching beside him. The adrenaline pumping through my body makes my hands tremble as I touch his shoulder. “Hey there, buddy,” I whisper. “My name is Sky. I’m a friend. I live just a few blocks from here. What’s your name?”
The child jerks towards me, his brown eyes wide and fear filled. He looks about seven, with skinny ribs and shaking shoulders. “Zack,” he whispers.
I stretch my arms out to him. “How about we go somewhere safe, Zack? Just for now. Can we do that, buddy? Can we go somewhere until the adults are done fighting?”
He nods cautiously, and I pull him toward me, my heart squeezing when he holds back a whimper over his arm. He’s been around long enough to know when not to attract attention. Though it technically makes me a kidnapper at this point, I hoist Zack onto my hip, murmuring some nonsense about ice cream flavors that I hope keeps both of us calm. As the boy burrows his head into my shoulder, I take my first shaky steps toward the sidewalk.
“What the fuck?”
A man in jeans and a dirty undershirt rushes out into the yard, his scruffy face looking werewolfish in the evening gloom. Throwing a beer bottle against the tree, he flashes a set of broken teeth before ripping Zack from me. Or trying to. The child cries out, but clings to me with a strength I’d not expected.
Grabbing the boy by his hair, Undershirt wrenches Zack away from me on the second try, flinging the child to the ground. Behind the bastard, a pair of other muscled thugs spills into the yard, the second one holding a baseball bat at the ready.
“Who’s the bitch?” one yells as Undershirt grabs and hurls me into the wall of the house.
14
Sky
For a moment, I don’t hear anything but a dull noise of impact and the cracking of the wooden siding. Then pain explodes in my face and shoulder. Before I can shout, the man pulls me back and—because slamming me once wasn’t enough—he does it again. This time, the house siding separates, splinters driving into my skin.
I scream. Dizziness sweeps over me, Zack’s pained crying in the background echoing my own gasps. Zack. I need to get Zack out of here. Somehow.
“Fucking bitch. Who do you think you fucking are?” Grabbing my arm, Undershirt throws me into the ground, the motion so violent that I feel something give way in my shoulder. Pain shoots through me, blazing down my arm and shoulder and back as I crash down on my injured arm.
I shriek then. I can’t help it.
And someone else shrieks too. My eyes widen as four shadows spill into the yard, the one closest to the baseball-bat guy taking the weapon away from him with a single powerful jerk before driving it right into the man’s gut. Another of the shadows spin kicks Undershirt, flattening the bastard to the ground. A third kneels beside Zack, speaking to him with a deep, soft voice.
Dizziness washes over me, and for a moment, I don’t know what I’m seeing. Don’t understand why the shadows are so damn familiar.
“Stay still, Reynolds.” Cullen’s words, calm and even, cut through the pain-filled haze around me, the man himself materializing in my line of sight a moment later.
“Cullen,” I say dumbly, my gaze skidding between the last man I expected to see here and Undershirt, who is stirring on the ground behind him. No, not just stirring. Reaching for his waistband. “Behind you!” I shout.
Cullen spins smoothly just as Undershirt pulls out a gun. Moving faster than I would’ve thought possible, Cullen rushes the thug, shoving Undershirt’s gun-holding arm straight into the air. A flick of Cullen’s wrist has Undershirt dropping the weapon with a scream of pain, Liam appearing beside the pair to catch the falling gun before it hits the ground. A few metallic clicks follow, and the disassembled pieces of the weapon scatter to the dirt.
Holy shit.
I try to push myself up, only to find another set of hands keeping me in place, Kyan’s ocean-like scent filling my lungs.
“Easy, Skylar,” Kyan murmurs to me as if I were a skittish horse. “Need to take a look at you.” He flicks on a flashlight, and by its glow, I see his dark eyes concentrating on me as he pushes a lock of his glossy black hair back under his ever-present baseball cap. The burn scars touching the right side of Kyan’s face manage to underscore the strong angle of his jaw, making his rare moments of connection heart-stoppingly intense.
“Scene secure.” Liam strolls out of the house after switching on a security light. I don’t remember seeing him enter, yet there he is, pulling zip ties from God knows where and wrapping them around the thugs’ wrists. Liam rubs his hand over his face, scruffy with a five-o’clock shadow that’s probably been in place since noon. “There are at least two kilos of coke they were cutting in plain sight in there. I’m calling it in.”
Pulling out his cell, Liam takes a few steps away, walking as if he owns the world, menace radiating from his honed body. I don’t realize I’m shrinking away until I feel Kyan squeeze my arm reassuringly. The man doesn’t talk much, but he sees everything. I wouldn’t underestimate any of these guys. Especially not now.
“Copy.” Cullen crouches beside me for the second time. His square jaw visibly clenched, lips drawn into a harsh line. Taking out a penlight, he shines it into my eyes. Despite being small, the light is painfully bright, and I jerk my face to the side.
“No, look at it,” Cullen orders. “I need to check your pupils.”
I want to argue, I really do, but my shoulder chooses that moment to throb worse than ever. I go breathless at the blinding shock, my arm spasming without my control. I whimper with each involuntary movement, my vision blurring.
It hurts so much that I almost shout at him to go to hell, but I can’t form the words.
“Can you move your fingers?” Cullen asks.
“Yes,” I say, only then registering that I’m full-on sobbing. Great. Of all the times to have a meltdown. “How…how’s the b-boy?”
“Mason’s got him. He’ll be okay.”
“B-but what about the m-mom? Was she—”
/> Cullen wipes the tears from my cheeks with stunning gentleness. “Rowen’s on it.”
Red and blue flashes begin to strobe from somewhere down the street, and I feel immensely glad that additional help has arrived. Although it appears the famous Trident gods have things well in hand. Suddenly, the townsfolk’s reverence for these men makes sense to me.
Uniformed officers flood the yard, Liam intercepting them as if he owns the place. I’m not even surprised when the cops fall in line beneath the man’s curt orders.
“I had the medic unit take Zackary.” Eli walks up to us, a small cut on his forehead. “It’ll be a while before they can get the next rig out here.” Kneeling beside Cullen, Eli softly brushes my hurt arm. “How are you doing there, soldier?”
I try to smile. My annoying sobs have ceased, but from the men’s expressions, I don’t think the smile’s very convincing.
“Alert and oriented, lacerations, possible concussion, and dislocated shoulder,” Cullen rattles off, the other man nodding along to the code. “Stable all in all.”
“You want to wait or reduce it now?” asks Eli.
“Now,” Cullen says firmly. “Neuro appears fully interact, and I’m not putting her through waiting a fucking hour for the ER doc.”
“Wait, what?” I inject myself into a conversation that seems to have taken a turn very relevant to my well-being and am surprised when it’s Kyan who replies.
“Cullen is going to put your shoulder back into place,” Kyan says in his soft yet powerful voice. “It will hurt.”
“No!” I pull back as Cullen reaches over and rips half my shirt open, baring a shoulder that doesn’t look anything like it should. Yet, the thought of someone touching my arm makes my heart jump into a dizzy gallop. “Don’t touch it.” I shake my head to emphasize my point.
Cullen catches my chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to meet his gaze. The man’s mossy-green eyes are hard as steel, the tiny thread of empathy in them as frightening as anything. “I wasn’t asking your opinion. Given where we find ourselves, I think you’ve done enough for one night.”
“My body,” I hiss through clenched teeth, “my opinion. Get away.”
“What our wound-up ass of a friend is trying to say,” Kyan tells me softly, “is that he thinks he can put that shoulder back into place safely now. The pain won’t stop until that happens, and none of us are enjoying watching you writhe in agony.”
“That’s what I said,” Cullen grunts.
Kyan winks at me.
I nod. “All right.”
Kyan’s hands brush over my body, stabilizing me from behind. “Take a deep breath, Sky,” he says.
I do.
Cullen takes careful hold of my wrist.
My stomach tightens. “I changed my mind!” I jerk away, gasping as a bolt of lightning shoots down my arm. “Don’t. Don’t.”
To my amazement, Cullen actually pauses, though he doesn’t let go. “Reynolds—Sky—look at me.” His gaze grips mine again, though this time, the connection feels like a lifeline. The rise and fall of Cullen’s chest shifts slightly to match mine before slowing our joint rhythm. “Don’t look away,” he says. Orders. “Don’t look anywhere but at me.”
I feel his hands moving again, Kyan’s grip tightening behind me. Without ever breaking eye contact with me, Cullen wraps his hands around my elbow and wrist and begins to rotate them slowly. Gradually. Unyieldingly, no matter how much I shake from the pain. I gasp as there’s a final jolt of agony before the joint slips into place with a pop, and relief floods my blood.
“You did good,” Kyan whispers to me, but it’s Cullen who continues to hold my gaze, a sparkle of pain flashing in his eyes.
I reach my hand toward him, and, with the next heartbeat, Cullen pulls me tightly against his chest and doesn’t let go.
15
Cullen
“Evening, Mr. Hunt.”
Leading Sky past the double doors of Denton Valley Memorial’s ER, Cullen nodded a return greeting to the security guard and then to a pair of orthopedic surgeons crossing the lobby, coffees in their hands. The key was to walk with purpose and as quickly as Sky’s trembling body would allow, lest someone pull him into an administrative conversation Cullen had no appetite for just now.
Skylar had scared him. That moment when he saw her on the ground, her small body quivering, something inside Cullen had gone very, very still. Eli must have caught on, because he’d offered to drive them to the ER himself so Cullen could ride in the back with Sky.
Setting course for the treatment area, Cullen bothered with no more than a cursory nod to the check-in desk, his key card opening the sliding doors with a whispered swoosh. As they crossed the shiny linoleum floor, the familiar smell of medical-grade disinfectant masked Sky’s floral fragrance, the bright overhead lights making her pallor more pronounced.
The place was busy, a typical Saturday night. A young nurse’s aide blushed the color of her pink scrubs as she glanced at Cullen before returning to labeling blood samples. Behind the large square center of operations in the middle of the room, one of the docs on duty in his blue scrubs raised his hand in welcome before returning to reviewing a chart with a pair of young residents.
“Cullen,” a woman called out from her station behind a computer screen. As he looked over, Michelle Mounce, the head RN who presided over the night shift, laboriously brought herself to her feet. Michelle was one of the many hospital personnel he’d worked closely with after returning from overseas. She stayed competent, cool, and more levelheaded in a crisis than most marines. She maintained an unfazed aura about her now too, soothing a hand over her hugely pregnant belly.
“Michelle. I’ve a trauma for you. Sky here had some help running into a wall. Possible concussion, left shoulder dislocation reduced at scene, multiple lacerations.” He reached out for the individual patient clipboards and a pen. “Notes coming.”
“Nice to know she’s already been in your extremely capable hands,” Michelle told him before addressing Sky. “Hi, sweetie. Let’s get you looked at.”
The nurse’s warm and caring personality was the polar opposite of Cullen’s, and he could see Sky’s tenseness lower by a noticeable fraction. In other words, Michelle had done in one moment what he had failed at for two hours straight.
“When’s your baby due?” Sky asked her, and the nurse pushed her coppery-red braid behind her shoulder.
Michelle snorted. “Monday.”
Cullen paused, his pen stilling on the clipboard. “Monday is two days from now, Michelle.”
“Oh, I meant last Monday.”
“Christ,” Cullen muttered under his breath.
“No kidding.” Michelle smirked at him.
“What the hell are you doing here, then?” Cullen barked, regretting it a moment later when Sky flinched.
Michelle, unfazed, looked right back at him. “This is my third child, and I know what to expect. Besides, if I do go into labor, I’m already here, aren’t I?” She cocked a brow. “Stop looking at me like that, Cullen. You’re perfectly safe standing next to me—pregnancy isn’t contagious.”
As they’d been speaking, Michelle shuffled toward one of the curtained-off treatment alcoves lining the perimeter of the ER and took a hospital gown from the shelf.
“Is your baby a boy or a girl?” Sky asked.
Michelle patted the exam table, and Sky shifted onto it, wincing with the motion.
Cullen stepped up behind the raised bed at once, stopping within arm’s reach. Michelle glanced at him briefly before returning her attention to Sky.
“Boy. Our first two were girls, so this should be fun. We’re naming him Henry after my husband’s father.”
Every molecule in Cullen’s body froze like ice. Henry had been his father’s name too, and that man, along with his mother, had thrown Cullen into military school just to get rid of an embarrassment. His father had died still thinking of Cullen as a grenade with the pin half pulled.
; Not that it mattered. None of that mattered. It was all ancient history.
Shaking off the thoughts, Cullen forced himself to back up a step while Michelle helped Sky into a gown, took her vitals, and yielded the spot to the doc, Ricky Yarborough.
“No allergies, no medications, no preexisting conditions?” Dr. Yarborough asked, holding out his hand for the medical file in Cullen’s hands. Yarborough—who had patched up Cullen more than once—was not usually in the ER, and Cullen would bet his bank account that Michelle had given him a ring. “Loss of consciousness?”
“Unknown,” said Cullen.
“No,” said Sky.
“Unknown,” said Cullen, his tone hardening.
“I was there.” Sky whipped her head around, only to groan when this jostled her injured shoulder. “And why do you have my medical file, Cullen? Isn’t it confidential?”
“Not to the man who owns this hospital,” Cullen shot back. If Sky thought she was going to downplay what happened, she had another damn think coming. “Listen, Ricky—”
Yarborough held up his palm. “What Cullen is trying to say, Ms. Reynolds, is that you’re unlikely to know whether or not you lost consciousness. And given your other injuries, it suggests the mechanism of injury was forceful enough that we can’t rule out a head injury.”
“Very well.” Sky nodded at the doc, then shot Cullen a narrow-eyed look, which told him their other discussion was far from over.
Cullen crossed his arms, not budging one step while Yarborough finished his exam, ordered a CT scan for Sky’s head, and X-rays to check the reduction, and promised that if the imaging came back clean, she could go home with some stitches and ibuprofen.
“Cullen, a word?” Yarborough said, holding the curtain to the exam room open for Cullen to precede him into the hallway. There was something about the doc’s tone that made Cullen’s chest tight around his ribs.