Twice.

Daniel Nieto died twice. Both times in Stavros’ arms.

Dried blood on his hands, under his fingernails. He stared at them, numb. He didn’t even feel the wound in his thigh that the doctors had bandaged up.

He paced the hallway, every heavy step echoing. He definitely shouldn’t be up and walking with a bullet wound in him. But he dared anyone to keep him still. Teeth gritted, he tried to think. Forced himself to think. Focus. Except he was cloudy. All his training. All his experience, gone with the bang of a bullet.

He died.

He fucking died after Stavros commanded him not to. He left.

Stavros felt as if he wasn’t all there. Pieces of him, the pieces of him that mattered, were all in that fucking operating room. All on that table. He trusted no one with Daniel’s life. No one. And the fact that he had to sit out here in this quiet fucking hallway with its blue walls and stale fucking coffee helped nothing.

One second they were happy, and the next…

He stopped pacing. Dropped to one knee and buried his face in his hands.

There was nothing, nothing like watching the person you love take their last breath. Nothing like that grief. Paralyzing. Terrifying. Nothing as bleak as the moment when you realize you would eagerly follow.

He used his hands and his own breath to bring Daniel back the first time. The one and only time he’d used his hands for that purpose. His lover stayed alive but unconscious for ten minutes after that. Enough time for the paramedics to arrive.

Then he coded in the ambulance.

Five minutes they worked on him, with Stavros right there threatening every fucking body. That man was going to live. His heart was going to beat. He was going to breathe. They’d come too far, been through too much. And Stavros was too goddamn selfish to allow Daniel Nieto to steal his heart then leave him lonely.

His tears had dried long before the paramedics arrived at the beach house.

Fuck tears, give him anger instead.

He embraced the anger. At himself. The shooters. At fucking Daniel.

Fists balled, he straightened, leaning against the wall to keep his balance. However long it took, he’d be pacing this hallway. He wasn’t leaving. Not until he knew Daniel was okay.

Daniel used a fake ID to get around, so Stavros gave that as his information. He also told them Daniel was his husband. How else was he supposed to get any updates? How else would he know the man he loved was alive?

“Here.”

Someone nudged his shoulder and he spun, glaring at Toro and the cup of coffee the younger man held out. He hadn’t even heard anyone approaching. “Don’t fucking sneak up on me.” He took the coffee and gulped it, not even flinching as it scalded his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

Toro didn’t blink at his barked words. He simply made his way to the set of uncomfortable and questionably dirty chairs over in the corner and sat.

He’d been the first phone call Stavros made, after 911. In turn, Toro called Syren. Stavros carried Daniel outside to meet the paramedics. He didn’t want anyone coming inside to try and save the man he’d gagged and handcuffed in the kitchen.

After they left, Toro and Syren handled the disposal of the man Daniel had killed. And they took away the live one. Stavros didn’t know yet where they took him, but he’d given clear instructions.

Keep him alive and he’s mine.

Not right now. Not when worry for Daniel had his whole body shaking. Not when he couldn’t stand still for two seconds. But soon he’d have a meeting with the man who broke into his home and shot his lover.

Soon.

When he could meet Toro’s eyes without feeling guilty.

They were supposed to be safe.

Happy.

What if they weren’t?

What if they didn’t get to have forever?

He made his legs work, made them move. And he slumped next to Toro, head tilted back against the wall. Eyes closed. The coffee burned his palm, and he just wanted to throw it against wall. Dirty up the immaculately clean hallway.

The blood on his hands mocked him. Dry and itchy. Daniel’s blood was caked on his pants leg, on his shirt sleeves.

So much red.

So much fucking red.

He refused to wash his hands. Refused to change his clothes. Two hours. He couldn’t.

Not yet.

“Family of Daniel Hernandez?”

The red-headed nurse’s white clogs squeaked on the floor, and still Stavros hadn’t heard her approach.

At her question, he jumped to his feet, along with Toro.

“I’m his nephew,” Toro told her.

“And I’m his husband.” To his credit, Toro didn’t even blink.

The nurse smiled at them with kind brown eyes. “Your husband is out of surgery,” she told Stavros.

He inhaled. “How is he?”

“They removed the bullets, and he’s lost a lot blood.” She glance down at the papers in her hand. “He’s still unconscious, and the doctors will be monitoring.”

“But is he okay?” Stavros pressed.

Her eyes filled with pity then. “It’s too soon to say, sir. I hope your husband is a fighter.” She patted his arm and walked off.

Fuck yeah, he was a fighter.

“Wait,” he called after her. When she looked over her shoulder, he asked, “Can I see him?”

“I’ll check.”

Toro touched his shoulder again. “He’ll be fine. Tío is a fighter.”

Tío. He was uncle and brother.

Lover.

The sadness in Toro’s eyes pulled at Stavros, making him realize he wasn’t the only one hurting. Wasn’t the only one scared.

“He’s a fighter,” he repeated as he hugged Toro. “He’s the dirtiest fucking fighter, too. He’ll be fine.”

Twenty minutes later, the nurse led him into Daniel’s room then quietly snuck off. Stavros stood next to the bed, hands fisted.

He was pale. So pale. Traces of blood still on his chin. Tubes were in his mouth. His arms. But he looked like he was asleep. He didn’t look like a man who’d died.

Twice.

He didn’t look like a man hanging on to life by a thread.

But the sight of him so still yanked away Stavros’ equilibrium, and he fell to his knees. “You wake up.” The words were wet, tripping over each other as they poured out his mouth. “Wake up, and come back to me.”

He grasped the bed rail, holding himself up when grief would’ve laid him flat.

“She can’t have you. I need you—” His voice broke. “I need you more.” Head bowed, he slid his fingers over Daniel’s. “I need you more.”

He wanted to switch places. Daniel would be alive and free and vibrant. Stavros was to blame. The beach house was his. The list of enemies he’d made over the years…

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He bent lower, putting his lips to the back of Daniel’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

Whichever one of his enemies had come after him would regret it. He’d make sure of it. “I’m waiting for you,” he whispered. “However long you want to take, I’m waiting for you to open your eyes and look at me the way you do.”

With wonder and surprise.

Love and lust.

Hunger and appreciation.

He brushed a kiss to Daniel’s forehead and forced himself to walk away. Out that room. Leaving felt like an abandonment. He ripped his heart out and left it in that room. On that bed.

Then he went to find Toro. He found Levi and Donovan Cintron, as well.

Levi ran to him. “How is he?”

Stavros couldn’t. Two men staring back at him with Daniel’s eyes were two too many. “Toro, where’s Syren?”

Toro glanced at Levi then back to Stavros. “Outside.”

“My people will be here in under twenty minutes. No one goes into that room unless we know every goddamn thing about them.”

“Stavros.”

“They’ll protect him.” His voice caught and he looked away, ignoring Levi’s gaze. They’ll do what Stavros failed to do. “They’ll watch out for him with their lives.”

“And where will you be?” Levi asked.

Not there. He couldn’t be there.

He walked out the hospital, and into the black SUV idling just outside the entrance. Ignoring the three other men in the vehicle, he turned to Syren.

“Take me to him.”

* * *

Petra Nieto had been his last personal kill. Now, Stavros looked forward to getting his hands dirty. He looked forward to letting someone else’s blood stain his fingers.

Syren had the shooter in a warehouse less than half an hour outside of Atlanta. Both knees bandaged, face swollen, arms zip tied behind his back, he lifted his head when Stavros strode into the place. His swollen eyes still managed to widen when he spotted Stavros.

He came by himself. Without the backing of the men who worked for him. Without Syren, too. This wasn’t anyone’s fight but his and Daniel’s. Since Daniel was out of commission, it fell on Stavros to fix this. He rolled up his sleeves as he gazed down at the still figure peering up at him under swollen eyelids.

Kerry was his name. The dead one went by Curtis. Kerry sported a faux hawk and a three inch scar near the corner of his left eye. It made Stavros think about his own scar, the one Daniel had put on his face. It was barely noticeable now.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked quietly.

“Should I?” A frown creased Kerry’s forehead.

So Stavros hadn’t been the target. “Who hired you?” He wanted this to be done and over with so he could get back to Daniel. But when Kerry sucked his teeth and tried for a cocky attitude, Stavros figured that shit was too much to ask.

“Fuck I look like?” Kerry spat. “A snitch?”

Stavros smiled at him. “I think you look like a man who hasn’t yet realized he’s dead and buried.”

“And you keep talking shit when your mans is dead and you’re all shot up.”

“Not my first bullet, Kerry.” Stavros stepped on Kerry’s right knee, grinning when he screamed. “Won’t be my last.”

“Argh. Fuck.” Kerry panted. “Fuck.”

“I want a name.” Stavros didn’t remove his foot from that knee. In fact, he put more weight on it as Kerry writhed, his bloated face a twisted mask of agony. “Someone paid you to do a job, and I need to have a sit down with your employer.”

“Man, fuck you.”

“Okay.” Stavros stepped back. He didn’t have the time for this. Didn’t have the fucking heart to prolong this. He pulled his gun and shot Kerry again.

Two bullets.

One in each knee.

A-fucking-gain.

And he dropped to his haunches and watched silently as Kerry gagged and screamed, and cursed him, his blood stinking up the place. Making Stavros think about Daniel’s blood.

“I’m a busy man,” he said above Kerry’s shrill screams. “This isn’t where either of us wants to be. Why don’t we change that? Tell me who hired you.”

“They’ll kill my family, man!” Tears and snot mixed with the dried blood on Kerry’s face and fell in crimson drops down his chin.

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“Kill me,” Kerry screamed. “Fucking kill me.”

Stavros rolled his eyes. “I am going to kill you,” he said gently. “But first, I want a name. Otherwise, I keep you alive like this, and I keep putting bullets in your fucking knees.” He held up his Glock. “I’ve got a full magazine, and plenty backup.”

Kerry panted. “I need a doctor, man. Get me a—” His breath cut off. “Get me a doctor.”

“I know what you need. You know what I need.” Stavros grasped his chin, fingers sliding in all the blood, saliva and snot. “Drop a name.”

“I don’t-I don’t have it. I don’t—” Kerry shook his head wildly, eyes almost swollen shut. “Curtis dealt with that shit. I was there to watch his back.”

Stavros cocked his head. “That is just…too bad.”

“I swear, man.” Kerry pleaded with his entire body, leaning forward. “I swear. I don’t know anything.”

Footsteps sounded behind Stavros and Kerry’s eyes brightened a fraction.

“Help. Help me. This motherfucker ’bout to—”

“Got what you need,” Syren told Stavros. “You’re gonna want to wrap this up. Now.” He disappeared, and Stavros turned back to Kerry.

“Today is your lucky day, Kerry.”

“You-You letting me go?”

Look at all that hope. “No. But you do get to die quickly.” He squeezed the trigger. Kerry’s head slammed into the wall, a small hole in the middle of his forehead. “That’s luck right there.”

He walked out the room and found Syren standing just outside the door, a bunch of papers in his hand. The three men who’d accompanied them on the ride over were nowhere to be seen, but Stavros didn’t delude himself into thinking Syren was alone.

“They got paid in cash,” Syren said. “And Kerry was right, Curtis was point.”

“You have a name?”

Syren handed over the papers silently, and Stavros quickly skimmed them.

Son of a bitch.

Son of a bitch.

Betrayal.

The papers fell from his grasp as he strode toward the exit.

“He wouldn’t want you—”

He spun, gun aimed squarely at Syren’s head. “Don’t tell me what the fuck he would want. You’re not the one wearing his blood like a second skin. He didn’t die in your arms.”

“No.” Syren shook his head. “But I know what you’re going through. And you can’t just go wreck shit in his name.”

Stavros grinned at him slowly. “Watch me. Keep your fucking eyes on me.”

Syren wasn’t the only one with contacts and endless resources.