Engines were killed, helmets were tugged off, and groans of agony became the new cacophony rather than engines.

Dashing forward, I searched for Arthur.

Where is he?

Man after man I discounted as I searched for my soul mate. Blood and dirt and gore covered the returned warriors.

But there was no sign of their president.

A hand squeezed my shoulders. I spun in fright. My heart rabbited, already anticipating my lover, smiling secretively and full of life.

I froze.

Grasshopper cupped my cheek, his face smeared with grime and weariness. “Cleo …”

The world sucked into a terrible vacuum. My heart stopped beating. “Where … where is he?”

Hopper sighed; his mohawk bristled with debris and grease. His cut had a rip down the front and his boots were covered in mud. “He’s not with us. He’ s—”

A screeching filled my ears, my head, my soul. Grabbing his lapels, I yanked him close. “Please. Please tell me he’s okay!”

Grasshopper wrapped an arm around my shoulder, guiding me toward a hot, hissing motorbike. “We don’t know yet. I came to get you. I’ll take you to him.”

With strong hands, he plucked me from the floor and placed me gently on the back of his Triumph. I didn’t struggle. I didn’t speak.

Am I in shock?

Am I broken?

Placing a helmet on my head and fastening the strap around my chin, he said softly, “He’s alive, Cleo. Just hold on to that and let’s hope the doctors keep him that way.”

I decided something while waiting in the dismal, depressing waiting room of the hospital. In a way, I’d had my eyes opened and the last naïveté of childhood stripped away.

Being the one left behind—the one waiting to hear the news of a loved one’s fate was the worst kind of punishment ever. I thought I’d understood Arthur’s pain. Understood his grief to believe I was dead and never coming back.

But I didn’t. Not really.

Dealing with amnesia was the easy part.

I’d moved on with nothing. No sadness to consume me. No guilt to enrage me. I’d had a clean slate.

Not Arthur. He’d been the one left behind.

My heart wouldn’t stop aching to think of the intolerable agony Arthur had been left with. I’d waited for news of his surgery for eight hours. But he’d waited for me to be reincarnated for eight years.

He was so much stronger, braver, and more capable than me. Purely because he’d lived through that tragedy and continued on living. Me? I wanted to die and fossilize in this awful plastic chair, so I never had to hear the news that he didn’t make it.

When we first arrived, Grasshopper had stayed close by. The nurses and orderlies all gave him a wide berth, eyeing up his bloody clothes and split knuckles. But gradually, as updates of Arthur’s progress was delivered, more and more Pure Corruption members arrived.

They’d showered and donned fresh clothes but they couldn’t wash away the stench of battle from their skin, nor banish the carnage from their eyes.

What they’d done last night hung around them like a thick aura and I made a promise never to ask what they did. Never to pry about the murders and torture that Dagger Rose deserved.

However, I couldn’t block my ears from their whispered conversations.

That was how I found out Arthur wasn’t the only casualty.

There’d been two others.

Mo and Beetle. A veteran and a prospect.

Dead. Gone. And all for what?

“Mrs. Killian?”

My head shot up. Doctor Laine frowned, taking in my ragged state and bloodshot eyes. “Everything okay?”

Seeing a familiar face threatened to break me. Digging my fingernails into the fleshy part of my palm, I stood. “There was a motorbike accident. Arthur is …” Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to finish. “He’s in surgery.”

I would’ve given anything to be in the room while they worked on him. My fingers itched to stitch and heal. But dealing with a dog or cat was entirely different than dealing with my lover.

Doctor Laine’s face fell; her severe hairstyle made her look older than her years. “I’ll find out what I can. But rest assured, he’s in great hands here.”

I tried to smile but nothing happened.

“Honestly, don’t worry,” she consoled. She tried to drag my thoughts from depression by distracting me. “I heard that you sewed up Mr. Killian when you first met.”

My eyes widened. How did she get that piece of information? Then they narrowed at the incorrect assumption. Having just met him implied he hadn’t been mine all my life. I shook my head. “I stitched him up, that’s true. But it wasn’t the first time we’d met.”

She cocked her head. “Oh?”

I frowned, struggling to focus on love when all I could think about was death. “The night I patched him up was the night we found each other for the second time.”

Before Doctor Laine could reply, a male doctor with a receding hairline and lined eyes appeared. “Ms. Price?”

The tantalization of news hurled me forward, gasping for knowledge. But then the fear of bad news almost pushed me back, making me want to huddle in the vacated chair.

“Yes?”

He waved his arm, motioning for me to follow.

Doctor Laine squeezed my shoulder. “I’ll catch up with you later. I have no doubt he’ll be fine.”

Grasshopper appeared from grabbing a vending machine coffee. His eyes softened. “Go on, Butterbean. It’s better to know than not. I’ll be here for you, either way.”