Chapter 53

MAEVE

The two men left alive are withering on the metal table, groans filling the room. I pull away from Killian, needing to stand on my own. I’m in charge—I’m the leader. Relying on someone else doesn’t look good.

Shaking out my hands, I gesture to my sister. “Thoughts?”

She moves to Daniel, tsking at his wounds. “They’re bleeding pretty good. Luckily, the metal didn’t hit anything major. If I can get it all out and stop the bleeding, he’ll survive. But movement will be limited until he’s fully healed.”

I’m already rolling up my sleeves. “And Sean?”

She frowns. “I’ll have to remove the burnt flesh. With infections and who knows what other trauma underneath it, it might not be enough. If he does survive, it’ll be a long road.”

I make a mental note—desk duty for Daniel until he’s back. Maybe even counting cash. That way, he’ll still have a job. As for Sean? Rolling my lips, I tilt my head. I’ll keep paying Sean regardless of what happens.

If he dies, his family won’t starve. If he lives, I’ll find a place for him.

Taking a pair of offered gloves, I look down at Daniel. The metal bits are corroded and old. A pipe bomb—not necessarily well-made, but it’ll do in a pinch.

“What do you need?”

“Hold him.” She gestures to the men behind me. “One of you on his arms. Another on the torso. Maeve, I’ll need you to help with the extraction.”

“Not exactly my specialty,” I quip, easing down next to Collins. I’m better at causing wounds than fixing them, but I don’t say it.

Hayes holds Daniel’s shoulders, and Killian slips the hilt of his blade into the runner’s mouth. “Bite hard,” he instructs.

When he places his inked hands on his chest, I look at my sister. “Aren’t you going to give him anything for the pain?”

She scoffs. “Since when do you care about pain management?”

It’s a barb—a good one. Under most situations, I’d ignore it. Not today, though. My mood sours, and a dark cloud hangs over my head.

My problem isn’t that I don’t care—it’s that I care too much. I feel everything—understand pain, sadness, and despair better than most.

I care if my runners make it home every night. I care if my siblings live long lives. I care if the twins in Sloane’s belly are growing right.

Because of that, it’s my weakness. I lock the emotions down, preferring the cold mask I show the world, and hide. It’s easier, safer. I’m less vulnerable when everyone thinks I’m untouchable.

Leveling the gauze to the sides, I watch as Collins dissects the shrapnel. Daniel screams, body convulsing as she cuts into his leg. Both men have to throw all their weight onto him, trying to keep him as still as possible, much to Collins’ displeased look.

But she doesn’t falter. The sharp scalpel slices through tissue with barely any pressure. She’s meticulous, pulling back layers, using clamps to keep the wound open. Using small tweezers, she picks the smallest bits out, filling the small metal pan at her elbow.

Theclink-clink-clinkof each piece hitting aggravates my nerves. Every chip is a personal insult—my fault. My weakness. My failure.

With her direction, we pack the wound, stitching it closed with a small opening. As if talking to herself, she explains, “For drainage.” Glancing up at Daniel, I notice he’s passed out, face sweaty and gray. But he’s breathing—better than Jaimie.

“Prognosis?”

Collins wipes her brow. A few strands stick to her forehead. “As long as we keep infection down, he’ll be alright.” She looks to Sean, face grim. “Same with him. But it’s harder. Burns?—”

“Having a higher rate of infection,” I supply. I know a thing or two about burns. My back is a living scar, crisscrossed with knife wounds, cigar burns, and the occasional lighter. It was a bitch to heal after those.

Killian helped—he kept them clean. He checked on me. His gaze snags on mine, as if he can see what I’m thinking—as if he’s back in those memories too. The harsh smell of singed hair and burned skin, the shadows that kept our secrets while he worked.

I break the connection first.

Collins gives me an odd look, but I move to the last man. His left side is encased in charred flesh, and the sickening scent of boiled blood wafts off of him. I don’t hide my nose, though—I’m better than that.