And finally, Liam had gotten into his Bronco and driven like a man possessed. Four-and-a-half-hour drive in four, pushing the ancient engine past its limits.
Now he was wired and hungry and thrumming with residual adrenaline.
He dropped back into a chair, hands gripping his knees until his knuckles went white. Images tumbled through his mind on repeat—Nimue vanishing as the ledge crumbled, her listless body in the cave, those angry purple bruises across her ribs, the helicopter lifting her away.
Meg’s assurance that Nimue would be fine.
Lie.He’d seen the truth in her eyes.
When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned.
Really?Because he felt charred to ash right now.
Trapped in this fluorescent-lit room, all he could do was wait. It was close to six in the morning now, and each tick of the wall clock was another reminder of how close he’d come to losing her.
How close he still was.
He stood, started pacing again. Muscle memory from another hospital, another vigil.
Christiana.
The days after her death crashed over him—sleepless nights, guilt that sat on his chest like a boulder, grief that had nearly broken him completely. He’d run home to Chicago, thinking family could fix him. When that failed, he’d come here to rebuild as a ranger. Found purpose in protecting others.
Nimue’s injuries threatened to drag him back to that dark place.
And this time, he might never find his way back.
Christiana had been his friend. Important, but still just a friend.
Nimue? She was something else entirely. What, exactly, he couldn’t name yet. But she had a piece of him now—the piece that made his world make sense—and losing it might shatter him beyond repair.
When you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.
But they were sweeping over him. And if he lost her, he might drown in the undertow.
He collapsed into the chair, grabbed her pack from beside him. He wasn’t sure why he’d brought it. It had just felt right somehow. He’d laid out the contents to dry on the drive here, then bundled them back inside. Her clothes, her sketchbook, that gold bar that had started their last fight.
He couldn’t think about the Bratva. Not now.
A man pushing a squeaky supply cart glanced his way, and Liam’s muscles tensed. Every stranger could be a threat.
Oh brother.He was in a hospital. He had to relax. He eyed the security cameras on the ceiling. Surely he was safe here.
Focus.
He dug through the pack for her notebook. She’d tried showing him her drawings, but he’d been too consumed with anger about her secrets to really look. Too busy being hurt to see what she was trying to share.
How could he keep her safe if she kept things from him?
But that felt petty and selfish now.
He flipped through water-warped pages until he found a drawing of himself. Harsh lines, mysterious shadows. Good. Really good.
A few pages later—another sketch of him. Softer this time, more personal. But still that distance in the eyes, like she had been drawing him behind glass.
He kept flipping. His hands stilled.
Wow.