Even though the ambulance crew arrives almost immediately, the police don’t let them into the building until they’ve secured the scene. Which means Briar just lays in my arms, slowly bleeding out into my shirt, and I can’t do shit about it.
She’s not okay. At all. After that first wave of panic died down, it’s like it took all of her energy with it. Now she’s just slumped against me, her eyes glassy and cold, her fingers twitching in my shirt. I’m hoping it’s just shock; as far as I can tell, she’s been stabbed once in the side, and slashed across the face. The abdominal wound is worrying me. It doesn’t look deep, but she’s definitely lost a pint or so of blood, and there’s no way of knowing without a proper examination exactly how much damage has been done. For all I know, X could’ve nicked a vital organ.
I keep pressure on her side and try to keep her talking. “Baby. Are you okay? Can you say something for me, honey? Did you hit your head?”
She doesn’t respond.
“Briar. Please.” I give her the tiniest little shake. “Don’t fall asleep yet, love, you need to get looked at first, okay? Ambulance will be here in a few minutes. Just stay with me until then, lass.”
She looks up at me. She doesn’t look sleepy at all, but her lips stay firmly sealed.
I stroke her cheek. “Please?”
“How is she?” Kenta asks over my shoulder, stepping away from the detective he was talking to. As per usual, he was the most responsible out of all three of us. He somehow managed to stop himself from running straight to Briar as soon as we got the door open, instead helping the agents to get X into a pair of handcuffs.
“Conscious,” I murmur. “Pretty unresponsive.”
He kneels down next to us. “Briar, sweetheart? Can you look at me?”
She doesn’t even twitch. He sighs and dips to kiss her on the cheek, but she flinches away hard, burying her face in my front.
“Okay, sweetheart,” he says softly. “Sorry. Someone will come and help you soon, okay?”
He straightens, dropping a hand on my shoulder. “I’m going to talk to Matt.”
“He okay?” I ask.
Kenta’s face is pinched. “He’s fucking falling apart. Almost lunged at one of the officers. Luckily, she was understanding.”
I swear, tugging Briar closer to me. “Go to him.” I know exactly what’s going on in Matt’s head. He blames himself. Briar getting kidnapped and slashed up with a knife is hitting him far too close to home.
I just wish he could get over this. Kenta, Damon and I knew what we were getting into when we signed onto our last mission. We knew there was a decent chance we’d be captured. It wasn’t his fault, any more than it was ours. But he can’t get over it. Sooner or later, the guilt is going to rip him into shreds.
When Kenta’s gone, Briar starts to shake, hard, and I wrap my jacket carefully around her, trying not to jog her too much. I can’t think of anything to say, so we just listen to the sirens and wait.
When the ambulances are finally cleared to enter, most of the paramedics immediately crowd around X. Only one, a smiling woman with a blonde ponytail, comes to kneel down next to Briar. Her nametag reads AMANDA.
“Seriously?” I snap. “He’s getting all of the attention? None of this would’ve happened if he wasn’t a damn pervert!”
Amanda smiles sympathetically. “Triage. It’s not our job to judge the patients, sir. Just keep them alive.” She gives Briar a bright smile. “Hey, honey. We’re gonna take care of you, okay?”
Briar doesn’t say anything, looking over my shoulder. I turn and see the other medics pulling X’s body onto a stretcher.
“Don’t,” I whisper in her ear, cupping her chin and pulling her to face me. “Just look at me.”
Her eyes meet mine, then trail over my scarred cheek. She winces.
Shit. With that cut across her cheek, my mangled face is probably the last thing she wants to see right now.
“Yeah, I suppose the view’s not really much nicer,” I try to joke. “We can get Kenta in for you to stare at, if you want.” She frowns, tightening her hands on me.
Amanda starts prepping Briar for the ambulance. Kenta walks back into the cabin, talking to an officer, and I wave him over, lowering my voice.
“Maybe you should go with her to the hospital.”
He frowns. “What? Why?”
“I think it’s upsetting her.” I wave at my cheek. “To see this. It’s probably why she got so panicky.”
Kenta looks at me like I’m stupid. “Well, yes,” he says slowly. “I suppose it could be your face that scared her. Or it could be the fact that she just got drugged, kidnapped, stabbed and shot at. Either’s possible, really. Who knows?”
I grit my teeth. “I just think she’d be more relaxed with you.”
He gives Briar a longing look, then steps back. “No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“I’m not the one she sleeps with every night like a goddamn teddy bear, Smith. You’re what she needs, right now.”
“You’re a psychologist! You can help her!”
His face hardens. “She doesn’t need a shrink, she needs comfort. So get over your issues and look after her. We’ll meet you there after we speak to the police.”
And then he goes. I look down at the girl in my lap.
You’re what she needs.
I’ll never be what Briar needs. The idea is unfeasible. But as I sift through her hair, she pushes into me, and love bursts in my chest.
I gave up on love a long time ago. When we got off our last tour, I was traumatised. I was scarred. I’d been so broken down, I couldn’t imagine ever recovering enough to open myself up to someone. I figured, I’d never get the wife, and the kids, and the picket fence. That’s why I joined Angel Security. I was never going to be happy, but I could still protect the happiness of other people. Normal people.
I touch Briar’s cheek. I’ll never be what Briar needs. Never. But God, I love her so desperately that I ache.
Briar doesn’t say anything on the ambulance ride to the hospital. She’s conscious, nodding or shaking her head when the paramedics ask her questions, but her lips stay firmly sealed. They cut off her clothes, slicing her red dress right off her, and gently remove all of her jewellery, putting it in paper bags as evidence. I notice she’s taken off the necklace we gave her. It’s probably for the best, but it still stings.
An oxygen mask gets strapped over her nose and mouth, but she yanks it off after a few minutes to throw up in a little cardboard bowl.
“Oh, baby.” I pull her hair back as her slim shoulders shudder. “Shit.” I turn to Amanda. “Do you think she has internal damage?”
Briar makes a panicky noise, and I stroke her back.
Amanda shakes her head. “Can’t say for sure, of course, but the wound on her side looks superficial. Probably whatever he drugged her with. Looked like chloroform. I saw a bleach bottle in the bathroom.”
“Jesus.” I run a hand over my face. “Long term effects?”
“Well, she’s not seizing or in a coma, so I would guess she’ll get through it fine. It takes a lot to do significant damage. The nausea is probably a combination of the drugs, pain, shock, and anxiety.”
Briar straightens, and I pass down a paper towel for her to wipe her face. She grabs my hand and squeezes it tight.
The rest of the journey is torturous. Even with the sirens blaring, LA traffic keeps us moving at a snail’s pace. My phone is blowing up with messages from Matt and Kenta. Briar throws up every few minutes. When she’s not getting sick, she sits propped up against me, leaning her head against my chest and breathing slowly. Even though she’s staying quiet, I can feel the panic simmering underneath the surface. I run my hand through her matted hair, trying to help keep her calm.
Right before we pull into the hospital, Amanda crouches down in front of the cot, looking Briar directly in the eyes. “Okay, hon. When we get inside, the police are going to take your clothes as evidence, and the doctors are going to look at you properly. Can you tell me now if we need to examine for sexual assault?”
My throat closes. I grip Briar’s arm tighter. The thought of that man touching her makes me want to vomit, too. Or stop the ambulance, track him down, and finish him.
Briar shakes her head.
“I’d like a verbal response, please,” Amanda says, her voice gentle.
Briar shakes her head again. I stroke through her hair. “Are you sure?” I murmur into her skin. She nods.
Amanda smiles. “Okay. Good, that’s good. If you change your mind, you can tell any one of us, okay? We’ve called ahead for a VIP admission, so when we get to the hospital, you’ll be given a private room, to stop you getting bothered by fans. I can’t guarantee there won’t be paparazzi in the parking lot, but our guys will do their best to keep them from getting shots of you.”
Briar starts to cry again, silently. It must be so humiliating for her, I realise suddenly. Everybody here knows who she is. Every single person. She has no privacy, even in her lowest moments. At least when I was stuck in hospital, recovering from our last tour, no one gave a shit about a random bandaged-up soldier. But to the public, her being injured is gossip.
I gently pull her face away from me and check the cut on her cheek. It’s stopped bleeding badly, but it still looks shocking, curving down from below her eyes to her chin. If she doesn’t get it seen by a proper plastic surgeon, she’ll be scarred for life. Her career will be over. The thought makes my insides cold.
As I watch, she covers her slashed cheek with her hand and glares up at me. I force myself not to stare. I know better than anyone else just how bad that feels.
“You’re gonna be okay,” I tell her. She closes her eyes and nods.
At the hospital, everything speeds up. As soon as the doctors lay eyes on her, she’s transferred onto a bed and wheeled into a private room for examination. They hook her up with an IV, switch out her clothes for a hospital gown, and take a blood sample for a tox screen in a matter of seconds. Briar floats silently through it all, letting people move her around and stick needles in her, all without complaining. It’s so far from her usual bolshy bossiness that it terrifies me. She’s like a doll, empty and unresisting as her body gets manipulated. The doctors assess her wound and decide the cut on her hip is superficial; the knife sliced through the skin, but missed any major nerves or blood vessels. They clean the cut and stitch her back up so quickly I barely process it happening.
She doesn’t regain the ability to speak until all of the tests are done, and a surgeon is standing in front of her with some thread and a needle. “Last of all,” he says cheerfully, “we just need to patch up your cheek, Miss Saint.”
She eyes the needle in his hands. “I want to go home,” she orders, her voice thin but firm.
I’m so relieved to hear her talk that I could cry. “You’re almost done, love.” I press a kiss to her hair. A nurse in the back of the room raises an eyebrow, and I quickly pull back again, biting my tongue. Even now, after a near-death experience, any PDA is dangerous for Briar. Hell, that little kiss could end up in the magazines tomorrow. I slide across the bed, putting a professional distance between me and her. She stares at me blankly.
The surgeon nods. “Just let me stitch up your cuts, and you’ll be good to go.” He snaps on a pair of rubber gloves, but Briar shakes her head.
“I don’t care about the cuts.” She tries to slip off the bed. “I want to go home, now.”
“You will,” I soothe, stroking her arm, “You will. We’ll all go back to the hotel, and you can get some sleep. You just need to sit still for a bit longer.” I lift her gently back onto the bed.
The doctor smiles, reaching out to prod at the cut.
Briar flinches back. “No! I don’t want the stitches!”
“You’ve already had more in your side, ma’am,” he points out. “I’m not talking about major surgery. You’ll likely have to come in for a few revisions, but we’ll get your face looking completely healed in no time.”
“I’ll hold your hand,” I tell her. “They’ll numb you up, it won’t hurt bad.”
Briar looks at me with wide eyes. I have absolutely no idea what’s going through her head.
A nurse steps forward with a syringe, and the surgeon accepts it. “Exactly. A bit of this, and you’ll barely feel a thing.” He puts his gloved hand on her cheek, and lines up the needle. Briar jerks away, and the surgeon bites back a curse as he almost stabs her in the eye. “No. No.”
“Ma’am—”
“I do not consent to these stitches,” she slurs, trying to bat the man away from her. “Stop. No. No.”
The surgeon sighs. “Ma’am, you’re not in your right mind. I would strongly advise you to listen to your boyfriend. He can tell you himself; living with facial scarring can be difficult.”
“I’m not her boyfriend,” I correct, trying to stay calm. “But yeah, it’s very fucking difficult.” I have no idea why she’s digging her heels in now. I can’t stand the thought of her having to live with this scar forever. With a reminder of what happened tonight stuck to her face for the rest of her life.
Briar scowls at us both. “So? I can do things that are difficult.”
I try a different angle. “This isn’t just about how you look. It’s about your career, lass. You might struggle to find acting and modelling jobs with a great big scar over your face.”
Her face twists. “I don’t care about modelling,” she spits.
“Then what is it?” I demand, suddenly losing my shit. “Why are you being so stubborn about this? Why?!”
She glares at me. “Because maybe if I have the scars, you’ll finally get it through your thick head that I’m in love with you!”
Everything goes quiet. For a second, I think it’s just in my head; but I realise that the low chatter from the doctors and nurses passing in the hallway has died down. People are listening in. Right now, I don’t think I care. Her voice keeps echoing around and around my head.
I’m in love with you.
Christ.
I shift awkwardly on the bed. “Briar, you’ve had a bad shock—”
“I love you,” she repeats stubbornly, then raises her voice, “and he is my boyfriend!”
“I’m not,” I say, panic building. God, this hurts. “Briar, please,” I beg, “please, you’re not thinking straight.”
“Why do you think I’m lying?” She demands, her eyes burning.
“I don’t think you’re lying, I think you’re tired and in pain and confused—”
“Why?” She repeats, cutting me off.
I sputter. “Because—”
Because the idea of her loving me is ludicrous. This isn’t Beauty and the bloody Beast, this is real life. Briar’s not my girlfriend; she’s a completely unattainable famous actress who likes shagging her bodyguards. That’s it.
“Because of your face,” she finishes for me. “I’m sick of it, Glen, I’m done with you acting like you’re not worthy of me just because of some goddamn collagen! I’m sick of you hiding from photographers to save my image. I’m sick of you hiding your face from me. I adore your face! I love it so much! I want to see it every day for the rest of my life!” Her chest hitches with a sob. I can barely breathe. “I thought you might be dead when that bomb went off. Do you think it would have hurt me less, because of your scars?”
“It’s not like that—” I protest.
She’s having none of it. “It’s exactly like that. You think you’re worth less than me.” She reaches up and brushes my cheek, and I have to fight the urge to pull away. Her lips purse. “These don’t make you worth less than any other man. If anything, they show how much better you are than most people. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever met. And maybe I’m selfish, but that’s why I want you, all for myself.”
I take a deep breath, trying to slow down my brain. “It’s not just the scars. It’s…” I lick my lips. I’m not good with words. I don’t know how to say this right. “You’re so good. And pretty. And delicate.” Her eyes narrow. Shit. “That’s not an insult,” I backtrack. “I just mean—when you’ve served, all civilians seem delicate. And soft. The things I remember, the places I’ve been… they’ve made me hard. The shit I’ve seen feels too dark and dirty for someone so normal. I’m not as bad as Matt, but I still have nightmares. I still have the memories. It feels like there’s this part of me that I have to keep away from you. It’s too dark. And you don’t need that in your life.”
“Oh, Glen,” she says softly. A warm hand touches my face. I close my eyes. She understands. “You know everything you just said is complete bullshit, right?”
I choke on my own spit.
She shakes her head. “I mean, I get it. I do. I don’t mean to demean your feelings, or whatever. But… your thoughts are bullshit. They’re wrong. They’re lying to you.” She strokes a finger down my cheekbone. “I’m not good, or pure, or delicate, and you’re not damaged, or dirty, or hard. You’ve been through Hell. And you’re right; I will never truly understand all the places that you’ve been.” She runs her hand down the side of my face. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t be together. It doesn’t mean I can’t love you.”
A throat clears behind us. “Ma’am?” The surgeon prompts. “If you don’t want my services, they’re needed elsewhere.”
Briar doesn’t look away from me, her blue eyes imploring. “Okay,” I tell her. “Okay. I believe you. I—love you, too.”
She shivers, a full-body shiver, and presses her mouth to mine. “Okay,” she mumbles over my shoulder. “Sorry. You can do it.”
The surgeon numbs her face, and I hold her hand as he methodically stitches her back up. She squeezes my hand so hard she almost crushes it, but when I look into her eyes, I know it’s not because of the pain at all.
