Page 132 of Beneath the Surface

“But he’s alive.” Quinn’s voice cracked on the words.

“He’s alive. Critical but stable. He lost a significant amount of blood. We gave him four units during surgery. The next twenty-four hours will be crucial, but if he makes it through tonight without complications...” The surgeon’s expression softened slightly. “He’s a fighter, Ms. Barrett. That determination is probably what kept him alive long enough to get here.”

Quinn felt something unclench in her chest—not relief, not yet, but the possibility of relief. The space for it.

“Can I see him?”

“He’s in recovery now. Once he’s moved to ICU, you can sit with him. Maybe an hour.” The surgeon paused. “He was askingfor you. Even under anesthesia. Your name was the first thing he said when he started coming around.”

Quinn’s throat closed up. She managed a nod, not trusting her voice.

The surgeon left and Quinn sank back into the plastic chair, her whole body trembling now that the worst of the fear had passed.

Dax was alive.

Alive and asking for her.

Quinn buried her face in her hands and finally let herself breathe.

The hour passed in a strange suspension of time—both endless and too fast. Quinn paced. Sat. Paced again. Checked her phone and found dozens of messages she couldn’t bring herself to read yet. Manny. Nathan. Carson. Numbers she didn’t recognize—probably reporters, already circling.

She turned the phone off.

Finally, a nurse appeared. “Ms. Barrett? You can see him now. But only for a few minutes. He needs rest.”

Quinn followed the nurse through a maze of corridors, through doors that required badge access, into the ICU—a hushed space of beeping machines and soft-soled shoes and the constant low-grade crisis of bodies hovering between life and death.

Dax’s room was at the end. The nurse held the door open.

“Ten minutes,” she said gently.

Quinn stepped inside and her breath caught.

Dax looked so small in the hospital bed. That was Quinn’s first thought, ridiculous as it was. This man who stood over six-three, who was all muscle and solid strength, looked small. Diminished. Vulnerable.

He was unconscious still, or sleeping. Quinn couldn’t tell which. His face was pale against the white pillows, making theshadows under his eyes look like bruises. An oxygen cannula ran under his nose. IVs fed into both arms. Monitors beeped steadily, tracking his heart rate, his blood pressure, his oxygen levels.

His left shoulder was wrapped in so much bandaging it looked like he was wearing armor. The hospital gown had been cut away to accommodate the dressing, leaving his chest bare except for the leads monitoring his heart.

Quinn moved to his bedside on legs that felt disconnected from her body. She reached for his right hand—the one not connected to IVs—and felt the warmth of his skin, the steady pulse in his wrist.

Alive. He was alive.

“Dax,” she whispered, her thumb stroking over his knuckles. “I’m here.”

His eyes fluttered. Opened slowly, struggling against the pull of anesthesia and pain medication.

“Quinn.” Her name was slurred, barely intelligible. But his fingers tightened around hers with surprising strength.

“Hey.” Quinn pulled the chair closer with her free hand and sat down without letting go. “Welcome back.”

“Did we—” He coughed, winced. “Did we get him? Wheeler?”

“We got him. He’s in custody. So are his men.” Quinn leaned closer. “It’s over, Dax. You did it.”

“We did it.” His eyes were clearer now, focusing on her face. “Are you—did he hurt you?”

“I’m fine. Not a scratch.” Quinn’s free hand touched his face, feeling the rough stubble on his jaw, the warmth of fever starting to set in. “You’re the one who got shot, you idiot.”