Truths That Saints Believe (The Klutch Duet 2)

I was barely holding myself up at this point. There was a man at my side, taking my weight, smelling of home, his entire body so tense it was like marble.

“Who are you?” the doctor asked, pale and starting to look more than a little afraid.

“I’m her husband,” Jay answered, focusing his stare on the doctor, arm at my waist.

“Well, as her husband, I’m sure you’re concerned about your wife’s condition. She needs to get back in that bed so our nurses can see to her.” The doctor was trying his level best to keep authority in his tone, to act like Jay wasn’t intimidating the fuck out of him. He was failing miserably.

Jay’s hand tightened around my waist. I used it as an anchor, even though he was likely moments away from placing me in the bed bodily.

“My wife told you what she needs,” Jay told him. “I’d appreciate it if you’d direct us to her room.”

“Mr. Helmick, your wife is bleeding.”

Jay’s jaw hardened, and his eyes turned stormy. The energy in the room changed. “I’m more than aware that my wife is bleeding. It isn’t life threatening, is it? No. So she will get what she wants because she’s made it clear that she’s more than willing to bleed for her friend.”

I might’ve collapsed at Jay’s feet right then and there if my need to see Wren hadn’t been so strong.

The doctor, knowing when he was beat, led us to her room. My steps were hurried, and every movement was agony. But I leaned on Jay. And he carried me there. In more ways than one.

Wren was asleep. Thankfully. It was cowardice that had me relieved. Karson was sitting beside the bed, face drawn and pale, his large form drawn in on itself. He was holding Wren’s small, limp hand in his large one like you might hold a baby bird, cradling it with the lightest of touches.

He didn’t even glance at us as we walked in, me leaning heavily on Jay, my blood dripping onto his shirtsleeve.

I didn’t get close to her. Didn’t move away from where I’d stopped in the middle of the room. Jay didn’t ask what I was doing standing there or how long I planned on doing it. He didn’t do anything but let me bleed on him. Eventually, he carried me back to the bed.

It wasn’t until I was back in my hospital bed with a new IV attached that realized that Jay had not spoken directly to me since he’d arrived. Not once. He’d been touching me constantly. But no words. He’d barely even met my eyes.

The energy thrummed between us as the nurse finished with me, my gaze hard on my husband, his eyes watching the nurse’s slow and careful movements. His face was blank, ice cold, but his eyes burned, standing beside the bed, stroking my hair.

I longed for the nurse to finish so Jay would be forced to speak to me, to talk to me, to somehow suck up all of the pain vibrating inside of me.

The nurse took so long I almost screamed at her to get out, which wasn’t fair since she had kind eyes and looked utterly exhausted. But my best friend being shot on the street and losing her baby wasn’t fucking fair.

Then when the nurse left, I wished for her to come back because I couldn’t handle Jay’s reaction. He fell to his knees at my bedside.

To. His. Knees.

He grabbed my hand, grasped it, clutched it like it was the only thing tethering him to this earth.

Jay’s face was as pale as I’d ever seen it, his eyes running over my body, focusing on the bandage on my arm, then the IV in my arm, and finally to the tight, hot area on my cheekbone. He stood then, moving as if his entire body was made of stone, eyes burning like emerald infernos.

He was building up to say something. Likely something that laid the blame firmly and squarely at his own feet. This had happened because of our connection to him, after all. Jay was already torturing himself, I could see it in his eyes.

“Stop,” I whispered, unable to speak louder, firmer. “I see you’re about to add this to whatever tally of marks you’ve decided go against your soul. But I need you to stop. This was not your fault.”

“You’re laying in a hospital bed, Stella,” he uttered, voice cold faraway. “A bullet grazed your arm. A bullet.” His hand squeezed mine tighter. “One that could’ve ended your fucking life. And there was another one that did end a life…”

His voice cracked then. Split apart into a thousand little pieces of sorrow, each sharper than the other, cutting me in a thousand little places even though I’d been sure I didn’t have any unbroken places left.