“What is it?”
“Now, lad, there’s no need to be panicking.”
Sawyer lifted his head at his mother’s quiet words.
Quiet because Devon was at the other end of the room working.
He recognized that volume. It was a ‘let’s not freak Devon out’ pitch, not a ‘let’s not worry Sawyer’ pitch.
Scowling at his mother, he scrubbed his hand over his head as he demanded, “What is it?”
She winced, her shock of red hair was as bright against her pale skin as it had been when he was a boy. The only difference being the many lines that now creased her face. For all that, she was still the bonny lass he remembered, but the worry on her features made his own nerves start to fray. “Andrei just called.”
Unable to discern why that would have her as white as a sheet, he realized Andrei calling heralded something else. Something bad.
Sawyer, only by the grace of God, didn’t jump up and slam his chair back, as, Cinta’s earlier prediction coming true, panic filled him. “What’s wrong?” he insisted, trying to control his tone even as he glanced over at Devon to make sure his brother from another mother was still focused on work.
“Sascha called him because she—”
“Sascha called Andrei?” He scowled at her. “Well, what’s wrong with that, ma?”
She scowled back at him. “If you’d let me finish, son, I’d explain. She’s had a fall.” She whispered the word. “And someone stole her purse after she fell. She couldn’t get in touch with you because she couldn’t remember anyone’s numbers.” Jacinta grimaced, her cheeks flushing as bright as her hair. “It happened six hours ago. I was starting to get worried, but you and Devon were so busy…” She shrugged her shoulders. “I thought you knew she’d be out a long time. I thought she’d told you about it.”
For a second, he couldn’t process what she’d said. Then, when he could, he jumped to his feet, agitation making it impossible for him to sit down.
His woman had fallen six hours ago and they’d only just now found out?
Worse still, she’d had to contact the house in Kensington rather than them because she didn’t know their numbers?
As horrified as he was, blackness seemed to bleed over everything else. She’d fallen, and his mother was looking like she could burst into tears at any moment.
His throat felt too clogged full of emotions as he turned to Devon. Not only was his best friend not going to take this well, he knew there was more.
More.
His mouth fucking trembled as he turned back to Cinta. “The baby?” he asked her quietly, their eyes locking.
She shook her head. “They…” She swallowed, the noise audible in the quietness of the study. “No.”
Agony whipped through him like a hurricane. It left devastation in its wake, but the shame and the rage and the fear all coalesced because, as bad as he was feeling, it was nothing to what was about to happen to Devon.
And then, he felt angrier because what about his own grief? His own horror?
For a second, just a split second, he hated that he always had to think of the other man first. But, this wasn’t just about him. Nor was it just about Devon.
It was about Sascha.
His throat choked again and he had to take a moment to clear it.
For a second, he stared blankly around the office, trying to process what his mother had just told him. Trying to figure out how this morning, everything had been well, save for Sean’s abrupt appearance in his mother’s home… Now?
Everything was turned on its head.
“Does Sean know?”
Jacinta shook her head. “He’s still sleeping.”
Sawyer’s eyes widened. “That must be some hangover.”
“Your father poured whisky down him like he was at one of those frat parties.” She pursed her lips in disapproval. “I’ll be surprised if the man will be able to see straight when he wakes up.”
He didn’t even have it in him to question how the hell she knew what a frat party was. No, he couldn’t think straight, couldn’t breathe right, not when their woman was in a fucking hospital. With miles and miles between them. Scared. Alone. In pain. Grieving.
He felt the soft, dry palm rake against his own, calluses that had been born from years of hard work, as they scraped against his fingers. Cinta squeezed. “Son? You need to go to her.”
“Of course I do,” he said on a growl, and realized he’d just been standing there.
Hovering. Dithering.
Uncertain. Unsure.
Fucking lost.
He shook his head, reached up to rub his eyes, then whispered, “Go and wake Sean, please, ma?”
She nodded. “What should I tell him?”
“Nothing. Just… Leave it to me.”
Another nod and she traipsed off, after giving his fingers one last squeeze.
Sawyer turned and looked at the large office that was twice the size of the master bedroom in the home annexed to his parent’s place.
It was as manic and chaotic as their office in London, with papers everywhere, as well as little origami shapes, from cranes to roses, perched on different books and shelves where Devon had discarded them after he’d created them.
But for a second, he didn’t see the sea of paper and leather, wood and tweed. He didn’t see the large fireplace with its fire that had died down hours ago or the green Chesterfield armchairs before them.
He just saw Devon.
Then, he saw Sascha, laying in a hospital room, alone with Tin, and having to deal with…
The breath was torn from his lungs as he folded over, his hands coming to his knees as he propped himself up.
The storm swirled through him again, and this time, the tears that fell were honest and true. Nothing less than the wee bairn they’d had for too short a time deserved.
As the rage of emotion passed, he knew he had to move. Sascha needed him. Them. He didn’t have time to deal with his own emotions, not when she’d been dealing with her grief without her partners at her side all day long. Feeling like an old man, he straightened up and when he did, he saw Devon was staring at him, wide-eyed.
The panic in his eyes hit Sawyer in the gut. It was an emotion that Devon felt too often and too swiftly. The chaos of the world was just something that could hit him and decimate him.
Reaching up to rub the back of his neck, he whispered, “We need to go out, Devon.”
“Go out where?” His best friend’s voice was hollow.
“To the hospital. Sascha’s had an accident.”
Devon sat up so quickly his chair tipped back—the desk behind him saved it, but Devon didn’t care.
Hell, Sawyer didn’t care either.
This whole room could fucking burn and he wouldn’t give a shit.
“Why?” Devon demanded.
“S-She’s lost the baby, mate,” he told him, having to choke the words out.
“Lost?” Devon shook his head. “She can’t lose the baby. He’s inside her.”
For a second, Sawyer didn’t have a clue what Devon was talking about, then, when he realized Devon had taken him literally, he wanted to sob again.
Shaking his head, and feeling the burden of guilt load down his shoulders, he whispered, “The bairn’s gone, man. He… She died.” They’d wanted to wait to know the sex, and didn’t even know what gender the child was.
“B-But, no.” Devon’s head whipped from side to side. “No. That can’t be.”
It could be. It was.
Sawyer didn’t say that though, he just strode over to Devon, gripped his shoulder even as he grabbed a firm hold of Dev’s chin. Forcing the man to look him in the eye, he murmured, “I know. You’re scared. You’re panicking. I feel it too, Dev. I feel it too. But… Sascha needs us.” His tongue felt heavy, too thick to move as he tried to form the words that would stop Devon from breaking down. “We need to get to Sascha.”
Devon’s blue eyes were so wide, he could see the whites around them.
“Devon, please, mon. Please. Help me help her.” He closed his eyes, unable to look into the endless bottomless pits of confusion and loss that Devon was staring back at him with.
He’d known too much loss. Too much death.
Sawyer wanted to rage even as he knew there was no point. Life just threw this kind of shite at some people.
Others had it easy. He’d had it easy. Poor, but loving parents had brought him into this world. They’d given him everything they could, had worked hard, harder than they should to get him the help he needed when his talents with math had revealed themselves.
It was through that talent that his parents had helped forge, with extra schooling and tutors they couldn’t afford, that he’d met this man. And that was when all their lives had changed.
For the better. Always that. But still, life opened up after Dev. Sawyer realized how lucky he’d had it in the face of what Devon had endured over the years. It was why Sawyer was Devon’s self-appointed protector, but now, he couldn’t be. He had to be Sascha’s.
She needed him.
Them.
And he’d already let her down.
They already had.
He gripped Devon’s shoulder tighter and made sure, even when he tried to pull away, that Dev had no other alternative but to look him square in the eye. Sawyer, who knew his friend’s capabilities, wondered why Devon hadn’t realized Sascha had been gone for so long. But it wasn’t fair to shove that blame on his shoulders. Sawyer had lost himself in his work too, and he knew they’d both bear the guilt of that forever.
“I know you want to break down. I know you do. But not now. I need you to think of her. I need you to focus on the woman who loves you. Who sneakily brews your coffee so you can have some without my telling you off. Who makes sure your drawers are all in perfect order so you know what to wear.” He sucked in a sharp breath. “Think of her, Dev. Please.”
It seemed to take a lifetime for that to hit home, too long in the face of Sascha being alone in a hospital ward somewhere, but when Devon nodded, Sawyer felt his knees turn to mush.
That had been both harder and easier than he’d ever imagined.
“I-I need to see her.”
“Of course,” Sawyer whispered, his voice cracking too much to even speak at a decent volume. “We’re going now.”
Devon nodded again and jerking back from Sawyer, rushed off and away from him. With his back to the door, he heard Devon head out, and alone, he let himself crumble once more.
These few moments were his and his alone. His brief time to mourn the child that would never be, and to allow himself to feel the misery of the moment.
It would never be enough, but it was what he deserved after failing Sascha so horrifically.
The hospital was overflowing with people.
Wherever he turned, there were people, and at his side, Devon was barely holding it together and Sean looked like he was about to puke. Sawyer wasn’t sure if that was from his hangover, or the news they’d broken to him before they’d driven like bats out of hell to the hospital, where Sascha had told Andrei she was being treated.
The more people there were, the more likely it was that Devon would freak out. He was strung tighter than piano wire, and barely keeping it together.
Sawyer knew it was a testament to how far Devon had come since Sascha had appeared in their lives. Before, he’d have been a wreck. Now? He was still a wreck, but he was coping, internalizing it all.
Sawyer didn’t doubt it would come out at another point. That this crisis was contained only as they located Sascha and got to her, but that was something else to worry about at another time.
There was enough to handle without adding more troubles to their worries.
As they approached the reception desk, he had to clear his throat twice to ask, “Sascha Dubois. She’s a patient. We’re…” He broke off. Not only as Sascha’s surname suddenly resonated with him, but, how did he explain their being here?
One man was acceptable.
But three?
And five when Kurt and Andrei landed at the airport?
Sean, seeming to sense Sawyer’s bewilderment, murmured, “We’re her family.”
The woman raked her glance over them. Sawyer stiffened and felt Devon do so too at her appreciative stare. When she just looked at them, gaping, not glancing at the computer once, Sean growled, “Sascha Dubois? We need to see her.”
The receptionist, in her early thirties, blushed. Her cheeks pinkening as she ducked her head and finally stared down at the computer.
“S-Sorry,” she mumbled stiffly, before imparting information about the ward Sascha was on. “But visiting hours are over,” the woman said to their backs as they headed out, ignoring her and her stupid remark.
If the hospital thought they could keep them from Sascha, well, they could think again, Sawyer thought grimly.
Following the sign-posted directions, he let Sean take charge of leading as he trudged along in their wake while he grabbed his phone. He should have thought to do this on their way over but he’d still been in a daze. Better late than never, though.
Scrolling through the contacts, he found the number he wanted and before he dialed it, murmured, “Devon? I need you to speak with John Ashton.”
Devon turned to glower at him. “Why?”
Sawyer knew it was taking all of his immeasurable focus to stay on track, to stay calm, and this was a breach of focus the other man didn’t need, but this wasn’t about Devon.
It was about Sascha.
“I need you to pull strings.”
“Which strings?”
Sawyer closed his eyes, seeking patience. “I need you to make the head of the NHS foundation help us out,” he clarified.
“Why?”
“Because they’re not going to let us in to visit her otherwise. And I want her in a private ward. You heard the receptionist, visiting hours are over.”
Sean cleared his throat, but it didn’t ease the rasp there. “Devon, call Ashton. We need to make Sascha comfortable.”
Sawyer didn’t even have it in him to be irritated that, as per fucking usual, Devon responded to the authority in Sean’s tone. Instead, he chose to be grateful and he handed over his cell as they rounded another corner, ignoring Devon’s awkward one-sided conversation with John Ashton. The linoleum beneath their feet was squeaky and the ivory walls were dingy, not easing Sawyer’s already grim mood as they trekked across the hospital.
By the time they’d followed the many signs, they found themselves outside a ward that had Sawyer frowning.
It was private.
How…?
Even as he was scowling around at the closed doors shielding private patients, a nurse approached them.
Her scrubs were green and wrinkled. Her brow was etched with the same creases, and her fatigue was evident.
“Can I help you? Visiting hours aren’t for another…”
Before she could finish speaking, a call sounded from the desk five feet away.
Her mouth opened, but she held up a hand. “One minute, please.”
Sawyer nodded, but Devon didn’t. When she turned her back, he strode down the corridor, peering into the windowed doors as he hunted Sascha down.
“Sir!” the nurse called out, but then whoever was on the line—John Ashton, no doubt—took her attention.
Following Devon, Sawyer watched as his best friend jolted to a startled halt. Before he could ask what had surprised him, Devon had pulled open the door.
“Who the hell are you?”
His growl had Sawyer shooting Sean a quick glance. Then, as he entered Sascha’s ward, he saw a stranger seated beside the bed. He was in an armchair that NHS hospitals seemed to specialize in. That weird blue vinyl that squeaked whenever you took a seat.
But Sawyer wasn’t looking at the blue vinyl or the other crimes against esthetics.
He was looking at the stranger who had Tin on his lap, who was holding Sascha’s hand in his like…
Sawyer’s mouth firmed then he released his clenched jaw and, like Devon, demanded, “Who the hell are you?”