Chapter 263: Chapter Two Hundred and Sixty – "Mine"

She is on the floor near the counter, partially shielded by shattered display cases, her body positioned at an angle that looks wrong even before he understands why. Her coat has been cut open and lies in dark, blood-heavy folds around her. The dress beneath it has been sliced away along the right side, exposing skin smeared in red and powdered with fine glittering dust from exploded glass. For a suspended second his mind refuses to connect the image to the woman he knows. The pale stillness. The unnatural quiet of her body. The red spreading beneath her in a dark, uneven bloom that stains the white tile like spilled ink.

His knees buckle before he feels them bend, and he drops beside her. The world contracts around her, around the deep saturation along her side, around the thick, dark blood soaking the fabric that clings to her skin.

"No," he breathes.

The word barely carries sound.

Her right flank is drenched. The fabric adheres to her skin, heavy and dark. Blood has pooled beneath her hip and begun to creep outward in thin branching lines along the grout between tiles. It is not spraying. It is not explosive. It is steady. Relentless. A deep internal bleed forcing its way outward.

He reaches for her hand.

A medic pushes him back firmly.

"Sir, you need to step away."

"She’s mine," Zane says, and this time his voice fractures completely. He swallows hard, forcing back the tears burning behind his eyes. "Please."

His knees tremble but he stays beside her. Everything else recedes until there is only her face, her side, the spreading stain beneath her.

Glass is everywhere.

It tangles in her hair, caught in soft strands near her temple where it glitters deceptively under fluorescent light. Fine shards dust her cheekbones and jawline, embedded like cruel ornaments. A thin cut runs from the edge of her eyebrow toward her hairline, long enough that blood traces a narrow path down her face before gathering at her jaw and dripping to the tile.

Her forearms are marked with scattered lacerations where she must have raised them to shield herself. Some are shallow, thin red lines against pale skin. Others are sharper, deeper, where larger fragments struck and slid. Tiny splinters remain lodged along her wrist, catching the light until an EMT carefully removes one with forceps before pressing gauze over the wound.

Her knees are streaked with small jagged tears where she must have dragged herself across shattered glass. The skin there is scraped and cut, fine fragments clinging stubbornly to flesh and fabric. Blood beads along those wounds as well, but none of it compares to the persistent seep from her side.

The display case must have exploded when the bullet tore through it. Shards scattered across her collarbone in a constellation of small wounds, each one leaking faintly. A medic brushes debris from her shoulder before covering the worst lacerations with sterile pads, working with controlled speed while never disrupting the compression at her abdomen.

Zane absorbs it all.

The tremor in her fingers where glass grazed her knuckles. The thin cut along her lower lip mixing with the metallic taste she must be swallowing. The fine dust clinging to her lashes.

He wants to wipe it away.

He wants to pull every shard from her skin himself.

But he can only kneel there, shaking, while professionals move around him with practiced urgency.

"No, no, no, no," he breathes, the words barely audible.

The wound itself appears small at first glance, deceptively contained. A torn entry low along her right flank, just above the curve of her hip. But the blood tells the truth. It does not erupt. It does not dramatize itself. It seeps steadily and heavily, soaking through gauze as the medic maintains firm, unrelenting pressure. The first dressing has already been replaced. The second darkens beneath his palm.

"She has a single gunshot wound to the right lateral abdomen," one EMT says quickly. "No exit wound."

Another kneels at her side, sliding a gloved hand beneath her lower back to assess pooling. When he withdraws it, it is coated in red.

"Possible internal bleed," he adds. "We need rapid transport." Zane watches, frozen, as they work with practiced precision. One paramedic maintains direct pressure over the wound without lifting his hand even a fraction. Another cuts away more of the remaining fabric to expose the injury clearly, careful not to disturb embedded fragments of glass along her shoulder and collarbone. Thin, shallow lacerations mark her cheek where shards struck her, but they are nothing compared to the dark saturation along her side. Blood continues to escape despite compression, gathering beneath her in a slow crescent before being wiped away so the stretcher wheels will not slide. "Stay with us miss," the medic says to Willow in a steady voice. "Keep your eyes open." They fit an oxygen mask over her face and adjust the flow. One starts an IV in her arm with quick, economical movements, securing the line and hanging fluids almost in the same breath. Another begins wrapping a wide pressure bandage tightly around her torso, reinforcing the dressing and pulling it snug enough to restrict expansion.

The gauze is already damp again. Zane cannot tear his eyes away from it. He sees the way her skin is losing color, draining from her lips first, then from her cheeks. He sees the faint tremor in her fingers when they twitch. He sees the way her breathing has shortened, each inhale shallow, each exhale unsteady. "She’s tachycardic," someone says. "Pulse weak."

The words settle heavily in his chest.

Her eyes flutter.

For a moment they drift without focus. Then they find him, and something like relief softens her expression.

"Zane," she whispers.

He leans closer despite the restraining hand. Her skin is cooler than it should be.

"I’m here," he says, voice unsteady. "I’ve got you."

Her fingers move faintly toward him, and he takes her hand carefully, mindful of the IV line. Her grip is almost weightless. He tightens his hold gently.

"I was thinking about the wedding," she murmurs through the mask.

His throat burns.

"Yeah?"

"Two weeks feels very far away."

"It’s not," he says immediately. "It’s close. You’re not going anywhere."

They slide a rigid board beneath her while maintaining constant pressure. The medic’s hand never leaves her abdomen as they lift her in a coordinated motion. Even with reinforced bandaging, a thin line of red escapes at the lower edge and stains the sheet before another pad is applied.

"Pressure holding for now," the medic says. "Move."

They wheel her out quickly, one paramedic leaning over her to maintain compression during transport. Zane walks beside them in stunned silence, the metallic scent of blood clinging to the air and to his hands.

They try to separate him.

He refuses.

Outside, the ambulance doors swing open.

"We’re taking her to St. Catherine’s," a paramedic calls out. "Trauma unit."

Zane nods, his hand still locked in hers until it is gently removed.

The doors begin to close.

A paramedic looks at him.

"Are you coming?"

"Yes," Zane says instantly. "I’ll follow you."

The doors shut.

The siren erupts.

Zane turns and runs for his car, his hands shaking so badly he nearly drops the keys. He follows the ambulance onto the road, lights flashing ahead of him, his chest tight with fear so sharp it feels like grief already forming.

Just a few minutes.

The thought loops mercilessly as he drives, his eyes never leaving the ambulance.

By the time the hospital comes into view, his hands are numb, his jaw locked tight, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding himself together.

And he knows, with terrifying clarity, that everything he is depends on what happens next.