“But—” Sinclair squinted, searching Dom’s eyes. He was worried. Afraid. Did he think Dom would cast him aside because of that?
“I’m fine.” Dom cupped his jaw, brushing his thumb over Sinclair’s lips—a bit of intimacy he allowed himself. “You okay?”
Sinclair shook his head. “Baby,” he rasped. Then he rubbed the bump of his abdomen, smearing blood all over his skin. There was a long incision down his abs, next to a puncture wound. Dom hadn’t noticed them earlier. A chill shot down his spine. How deep were those wounds?
“Is the baby okay?” Dom ripped his shirt off and balled it up, pressing it against Sinclair’s wounds to stem the bleeding. He was almost afraid to hear the answer.
Sinclair shook his head, groaning. Dom’s heart sank. Had something happened to their baby? Had they... lost it? He felt helpless, raw—maybe the same sort of loss that had sent Sinclair into a rage.
He pulled Sinclair tight against himself, rubbing his back. There were patches of raw skin all over his alpha, lash marks, needle punctures. And Sinclair had only been missing for a few hours.
“Dom,” Sinclair breathed. He touched Dom’s waist uncertainly. Then he wobbled, shaking his head as though he was trying to clear his thoughts.
Sinclair threw up all over Dom’s chest, frothy bubbles that Dom had only rarely seen before. He’d been poisoned.
How long did he have without an antidote? His stomach clenching, Dom leaned Sinclair against the wall.
The door slammed open, splintering around the bolted lock.
Dom whirled around, placing himself between Sinclair and the intruder.
A man strode in, a gun pointed at them both. “I’ve had enough of you,” he snapped. Blood trickled down the side of his neck; his nose was broken. “I built you into the most powerful tool on the planet. And you attacked me.”
Behind Dom, Sinclair spat and coughed. “Fucker.”
“Maybe I won’t save you from the toxins this time,” the doctor said.
This was the monster who had tortured Sinclair. The monster who had cut into Sinclair, over and over, hundreds—if not thousands—of times. The monster who had experimented with Sinclair’s life, taking him to the brink of death and back. Sinclair had been a child.
Fury boiled through Dom’s veins; he snatched the gun off the floor and aimed it at the doctor. “Give him the antidote.”
The doctor scoffed. “Or else what? You’ll kill me?”
Then he pointed his gun at Sinclair, and Dom’s insides twisted. He darted in front of his alpha, just as a gunshot blasted through the room.
Agony lanced through his arm. He fired back, two shots. Then another.
It was only when the doctor collapsed with a heavy thump, that Dom looked back, checking Sinclair for any injuries. Their gazes locked; Sinclair wheezed, his expression disbelieving. He’d seen Dom take the shot for him.
But Dom didn’t have time to acknowledge it. He stalked over to the doctor, his gun trained on that monster. “What did you poison him with?”
He wasn’t fool enough to think he had leverage on that bastard. He’d have to count on Nate—hopefully Nate was okay—and maybe Nate could save Sinclair. Whatever he had to do.
Because Dom couldn’t lose his alpha.
Dom was about to kick the doctor, when the doctor aimed his gun past Dom’s feet, at Sinclair. His finger tightened on the trigger.
Dom didn’t even think. He shot thrice at the doctor’s head, and then he kept on shooting, until he’d emptied every last bullet into that scum.
It was only when the roaring in his chest quieted, when his instincts said, No one will harm Sinclair again, that Dom dragged his stare away from the body.
Through the ringing in his ears, Dom heard Sinclair hit the floor. His stomach clenched. He darted back to Sinclair, heaving him upright. “Sinclair. Stay with me.”
Sinclair shook his head, throwing up again.
Dom yanked his radio out, his senses blaring with alarm. “Nate, are you there?”
“On my way. What’s your status?”
“Same place. He’s been poisoned. I need help.”
Nate swore. “Be right there.”
“You’ve been shot,” Sinclair muttered, his gaze going unfocused. “You need help.”
“Shut up,” Dom hissed. “You don’t get to decide anything right now.”
“Fuck you.”
A tight, heavy emotion welled up in Dom’s throat. He pressed his shirt back against Sinclair’s middle, over the puncture wound. Then, carefully, he cradled Sinclair’s head, kissing his lips.
“Stay with me, all right?” Dom murmured. “I can’t lose you.”
Sinclair huffed weakly. “I don’t die so easy.”
But he was breathing harder, his face pale, sweat beading on his skin. Dom held him close, blood and vomit and all. Then he pressed a soft kiss to Sinclair’s temple and whispered, “I love you.”
Sinclair didn’t answer, though. When Dom pulled away, he found that Sinclair had passed out.
30
Jesse Wakes Up
When Jesse woke, he found himself surrounded by white walls and a sterile scent. His heart lodged in his throat.
“Easy there.” A familiar rumble slipped into his ears; callused fingers squeezed his hand. “You’re safe.”
The anxiety in Jesse’s chest eased a little. Then he noticed the blackwood scent, and the broad-shouldered figure in the chair next to his bed. Relief flooded through his chest. “Dom.”
“Still remember my name?” Dom cracked a smile. “Weren’t you supposed to call me a bastard?”
A low groan slipped out of Jesse’s throat. Dom was here. Everything would be fine. His entire body relaxed; he could breathe again.
The moment he focused on Dom, Jesse couldn’t look away.
Dom had a day’s growth of stubble on his jaw, his lips ever so kissable, his hair mussed, like he’d been running his fingers through it. But his gaze—that was fixed on Jesse, looking so warm that Jesse’s heart skipped a beat. “How’re you feeling?” Dom asked.
Jesse hurt all over, but that was nothing new. “Fine.”
Dom frowned and leaned forward. “I need a better answer, Sinclair. You were shot, poisoned, stabbed, and who knows what else.”
Jesse shrugged. “What’s new?”
For a moment, Dom looked pissed. But that moment passed, and he breathed out his anger. “He’s dead. Larson.”
Jesse’s spirits lifted. “He is?”
“How much of your kidnapping do you remember?”
Jesse shook his
