The Choice
1269 Words
Cassian =
Pain was an old friend.
I knew its language. The sharp stab of a blade finding muscle. The duller, deeper ache of internal bleeding. The cold that came after, when your body started shutting down to protect itself.
I'd been here before.
But never like this.
The ceiling tiles blurred above me. Fluorescent lights burned my retinas. Voices shouted medical jargon I half-understood. Hands pulled at my clothes. Cold. Everything was so f*****g cold.
Except her hands.
She'd touched me. Pressed against my wounds with her jacket, her palms warm even as I bled out in the snow. She'd looked at me like I was human.
Stupid girl.
"Sir, can you hear me?" A face appeared above mine. Male. Middle-aged. Doctor, by the look of him. "You're at County General. You've been stabbed. We need to get you into surgery."
I tried to speak. My mouth wouldn't cooperate.
"Get him prepped," the doctor said to someone I couldn't see. "Type and cross. And someone call the police. This is a crime scene."
Police.
The word cut through the fog.
I forced my eyes to focus. Tried to move. My body was a foreign thing, distant and unresponsive.
"Don't move," the doctor said. "You'll make it worse."
Worse. As if it could get worse.
I'd been sloppy. Distracted. Vincenzo had come at me from behind while I was finishing the job, and his blade had found flesh before I'd put him down. Three strikes. One to the gut. One to the ribs. One that I'd turned just enough to keep it from hitting my heart.
But it didn't matter where the blade went if you bled out anyway.
I should be dead.
I would've been dead.
If she hadn't found me.
Her face flashed behind my eyes. Wide. Scared. But steady. She hadn't screamed. Hadn't run. She'd knelt in my blood and tried to save me.
Which meant she'd seen me.
Which meant she was a witness.
Which meant she was dead.
The thought should've felt distant. Clinical. I'd ordered worse for less. In my world, witnesses didn't walk away. They got put in the ground before they could talk.
But something about the way she'd looked at me—like I was worth saving—made my chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the knife wound.
Stupid girl.
"BP's dropping." A nurse's voice, clipped and professional. "We need to move now."
They wheeled me down a hallway. Lights flashed past. My thoughts scattered and reformed.
The hit had gone wrong. Vincenzo was supposed to die. He did die. But not before he called his crew. Not before backup arrived and I'd had to fight my way out. I'd made it three blocks before the blood loss caught up.
And then she found me.
"Page Rourke," I managed to say. My voice was gravel and broken glass.
The doctor leaned closer. "What?"
"Rourke." I forced the name through gritted teeth. "Call him."
"Sir, we need to focus on—"
"Call. Him."
The doctor exchanged a glance with someone I couldn't see. I didn't care. Nic would come. Nic would fix this. He'd clean up the scene, handle the cops, and take care of her.
Her.
I didn't even know her name.
They pushed me through double doors. The operating room. Bright. Cold. Someone was putting a mask over my face.
"Count backward from ten," a voice said.
Ten.
Her eyes, dark and defiant.
Nine.
Her hands, warm against my skin.
Eight.
The way she'd stayed.
Seven.
Stupid girl.
Six.
I was going to get her killed.
Five.
The darkness pulled me under.
* * *
I woke to muted voices.
Pain hit first. A dull, throbbing ache that radiated from my abdomen. Surgical pain. Different from the knife. More invasive. More final.
I was alive.
That was either a miracle or a curse, depending on how you looked at it.
I forced my eyes open. The recovery room. Beige walls. Machines beeping. Nic sat in the chair beside my bed, his phone pressed to his ear.
"I don't care what you have to do," he was saying. "Find her. And keep her quiet."
My blood went cold.
"Nic," I said.
He looked up. Relief flashed across his face, quickly replaced by his usual mask of control. He ended the call.
"You're awake." He stood, moving to the bedside. "How do you feel?"
"Like I got gutted." I tried to sit up. Pain lanced through me, stealing my breath. "Who were you talking to?"
"Marc. We're handling it."
"Handling what?"
Nic's jaw tightened. "The girl."
My chest constricted. "What girl?"
"The nurse. The one who found you."
I saw her face again. Dark eyes. Soft mouth. Hands stained with my blood.
"What about her?" My voice was flat.
"She saw you, Cassian. She called 911. The cops are already asking questions."
"So?"
"So she's a witness. To a Syndicate hit. You know the rules."
I did know the rules. Witnesses got buried. No exceptions. It didn't matter if they were civilians. It didn't matter if they were innocent. If they saw too much, they died.
But she'd saved me.
"Leave her alone," I said.
Nic stared at me. "What?"
"I said leave her alone."
"Cass, she can identify you. If the cops get to her—"
"They won't." I gritted my teeth against the pain, forced myself upright. Every muscle screamed. I didn't care. "She didn't see anything. I was half-dead in the snow. She found me, called an ambulance, and that's it."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
Nic's eyes narrowed. "Why are you protecting her?"
Good question.
I didn't have an answer. Not one that made sense.
"Because she's not a threat," I said finally.
"She's a witness."
"She's a nurse who tried to help."
"And if she talks?"
Then I'd handle it. Personally. But I didn't say that out loud.
"She won't," I said instead.
Nic shook his head. "You're making a mistake."
Maybe I was.
Probably I was.
But the memory of her hands on my skin, warm and steady, made the thought of putting a bullet in her head feel wrong.
And I never felt wrong about killing.
"Where is she?" I asked.
"Still at the hospital. Marc's keeping eyes on her."
"Tell him to stand down."
"Cass—"
"Tell him."
Nic held my gaze for a long moment. Then he sighed. "Fine. But if this blows back on us—"
"It won't."
He didn't look convinced. But he pulled out his phone and sent a message.
I leaned back against the pillows, exhausted. My body was trying to heal. My mind was spinning.
She'd saved me.
And I was going to ruin her for it.
The door to the recovery room burst open. A nurse rushed in, her face pale.
"Doctor!" she shouted into the hallway. "We need security!"
Nic's hand went to his g*n.
"What is it?" I demanded.
"Shooting," the nurse said, breathless. "Outside the ER. Someone's opening fire."
Nic's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. His face went hard.
"It's Vincenzo's crew," he said. "They're here for you."
I gritted my teeth. "Get me out of this bed."
"You just had surgery—"
"Now, Nic."
He moved fast, yanking out the IV, helping me to my feet. Pain exploded through my abdomen but I pushed through it.
Gunfire erupted outside. Close. Too close.
"They're in the building," Nic said.
I thought of her. The nurse. Still here. Still vulnerable.
Because of me.
"Find her," I said. "Before they do."
- Writer
