Banks and Sulli’s concern crashes into me like giant waves only to recede and crash again. It becomes hard to look at them. Especially when I know they’d rather take me to a hospital.
Bloody gauze fills a trash bin beside our feet. Pain blooms in my side, but I’ve already tossed a couple of Vicodin, and the piercing heat has started to subside to a dull throb. I thanked Maximoff for the water.
Now Farrow just needs to hurry. The faster I’m done, the faster Sulli can compete.
I smile to try to lighten the mood. “Hey, it was skill. Not luck.”
The suite is still tensed.
Like they can all see through me.
Sitting stiffly on the cream couch, Oscar and Donnelly have been whispering and glancing in constant worry.
Quinn isn’t here. He’s back in Philly running Studio 9.
Gabe hides in the bathroom with the door cracked open, feeling woozy from the sight of all the blood.
Thatcher stands stoically by the closed curtains of a floor-length window. The terrace is locked, but he peeks out of the curtains every so often, then peeks at me.
Silence hangs heavy after my poor shot at levity.
Fantastic.
I’m not used to having people care this deeply about my well-being. I’m more used to worrying about the team than being someone to worry about. And honestly, I’m not the only guy who’s uncomfortable with this attention.
Most of us would rather fling the concern onto our clients or our friends.
Shoot, Banks barely talks about his injuries. He’ll say, “I’m good to go” when he’s flat on his aching back.
Farrow grimaces if you ask him if he’s okay more than twice. (Unless you’re his husband.)
Donnelly will bury himself in his shirt before you ever see him upset.
Oscar has a “serious face” that supersedes hurt.
Thatcher is Thatcher.
And Quinn will snap, “I’m fine!” until you lay off.
Does this profession just attract this type of person? Or are we all here because we’ve needed each other?
I think I’ve always needed Omega, as much as they’ve needed me.
“Every couple of hours, I’ll need to check on this,” Farrow says strictly. “No avoiding me like last time, Akara.”
“Yeah,” I agree.
Anything to get out of here faster.
Thatcher remains quiet at the window. His silence is louder than anyone talking. He asked me if I was alright and that’s been the extent of our conversation. But he keeps peeking over.
I know he cares about me.
I know he realizes that I risked Sulli’s life for a moment, just to protect his brother. And if I screwed up—if that’d been the bad call…
I can’t think about it.
It’s an alternate history, and I remind myself that I’m a good bodyguard, a great leader. Because I know which calls to make in those split-second moments. If I didn’t, I could’ve lost Banks tonight.
Donnelly raises a hand. “Anyone else feeling like the boss is playing favorites with the boss?”
I shoot him a look.
His hand slowly lowers. “Nevermind. I said nothing.”
Oscar finally pops the tab of a Pringles can. “No, bro, you were definitely making a good point. Why does Kitsuwon get a free pass from the hospital? I barely stub my big toe and he makes me go.”
He’s exaggerating.
“I’m fine,” I groan for what feels like the hundredth time. “I don’t need the hospital, guys.”
Farrow raises his brows and gives me a look I’ve seen him give his husband a million times. The one that says, you’re being a stubborn ass. At least, that’s how I read it.
Speaking of his husband, Maximoff has his arms crossed like he’s ready for twenty knife-wielding linebackers to burst through the door. Baby Ripley has been flipping through a picture book on the floor. Babbling to himself.
But Farrow follows my gaze to Maximoff. “Relax, wolf scout. The world is not burning down.”
Maximoff uncrosses his arms and cracks his knuckles. “Four guys attacked Sulli and you don’t think the world is burning?”
“They didn’t attack me, Mof,” Sulli pipes in. “They attacked Akara and Banks.”
“They were after you, Sul.”
Maximoff isn’t wrong. Banks and I weren’t the targets, and the only reason we ended up in the middle of the fight is because it’s our job to protect her. And we did this time.
“Hey, we avoided the worst,” I tell him.
Maximoff scrunches his face. “You’ve been stabbed, man. How is this not a bad thing?” He spins around the suite, searching for one of my men to back him up. “Am I living in the Twilight Zone?”
Farrow’s smile stretches wide. “Once a famous one. Always a famous one.”
Oscar laughs.
Donnelly smirks. “Stamp.”
Maximoff actually flushes, but his frustration and anger rotates onto his husband quickly. He opens his mouth, but Farrow beats him, “We’re bodyguards, wolf scout.” He snaps off his gloves. “All of us are willing—shit, we’re anticipating—to get hurt on the job for any one of you.”
“I get that,” Maximoff says strongly, “but things are getting so goddamn dangerous. Sulli has already had a gun pulled on her this year.”
Air vacuums out of the suite.
Banks hugs Sulli tighter, and she holds onto his arms like she’s falling off a cliff.
Thinking about the gun incident is another stab to the abdomen. Seeing Sulli go into shock is about fifty more stabs. I’m about to stand.
Farrow catches my wrist, silently saying, not yet, Kitsuwon.
Shit.
“Sorry, Sul,” Maximoff says, seeing my girlfriend’s reaction.
She’s wide-eyed. “It’s alright, Mof. I just don’t like remembering.”
“We’re more prepared,” I remind Maximoff and so Sulli remembers this too.
He nods a few times. “I just really don’t want to see anyone else get hurt.” He rakes a hand through his thick hair. “And I know it’s impossible to ask.”
Oscar nods, “Either we get hurt or our clients get hurt.”
Donnelly softens his smile. “If we succeed, we’re the ones getting hurt.”
“Every time,” Farrow finishes.
Sulli winces. “I’m with Mof—this sucks.”
Oscar tosses a Pringle in his mouth. “And that’s why you don’t date your bodyguards.”
“Oscar,” I snap.
Farrow rolls his eyes at his friend.
Banks whispers to Sulli.
Donnelly is suspiciously quiet. He gets up. To check the window.
“What?” Oscar says innocently. “I’m not saying she can’t hang, Kitsuwon. If she couldn’t handle the heat, she would’ve already left the bodyguard kitchen.”
“No, you’re just saying she’s dumb to date a bodyguard.”
“Technically, she’s dating two,” Farrow says matter-of-factly.
“Not helping,” I tell him.
His lips rise.
The Yale boys are killing me.
“Or,” Oscar says, “I’m saying you all are some stupid motherfuckers to date your clients, and my intelligent ass had enough sense to date outside the family.”