The medical bay in the Blackwood's hidden city facility was a cathedral of glass and chrome. Surgeons—men whose careers were bought and paid for by Vane's blood money—swarmed the gurney the moment they landed. They tore Ren away, his hands slick with Vane's warmth, as the double doors hissed shut, leaving him and Julian in a hallway that smelled of ozone and death.
Ren stood frozen. He looked down at his hands. Vane's blood was drying in the creases of his palms, a dark, permanent map of the man's sacrifice.
"He's going to die," Julian whispered, sinking into a chair, his face buried in his hands. "The Malatestas... they're already moving. Without him at the helm, the city will be picked clean by morning."
Ren looked at Julian—the prince who was still too soft for the crown—and then back at the red 'In Surgery' light. Something inside Ren snapped. The "Masterpiece" was gone.
The "Little Bird" had drowned in Vane's blood. What remained was the person Vane had spent months forging in the dark.
"No," Ren said, his voice as cold as the sea spray on the offshore platform. "He isn't going to die. And the city isn't going anywhere."
Ren walked to the intercom at the nurses' station. He didn't ask for permission. He pressed the override button that broadcasted to the entire Blackwood security network—hundreds of soldiers, hackers, and cleaners currently standing paralyzed by their leader's fall.
"This is Ren," he said, his voice echoing with a terrifying, steady authority. "Your Master is in surgery. Until he wakes, his word is my word. Any man who stops fighting, any man who retreats, will be treated as a traitor to the First Debt. Julian and I are holding the line. If you want a Master to return to, make sure there is a city left for him to rule."
The next six hours were a baptism in the Blackwood business.
While Vane lay on an operating table with his chest cracked open, Ren sat in the command center, Julian at his side. He didn't know the technicalities of the trades or the logistics of the docks, but he knew one thing: Loyalty.
He coordinated the defense of the remaining warehouses. He authorized the "liquidation" of the Malatesta frontmen who had participated in the kidnapping. He watched the screens as Vane's men, galvanized by the voice of the person Vane had died for, began a counter-offensive that was more brutal than anything the city had seen in decades.
"You're doing it," Julian whispered, watching Ren command a room full of hardened killers. "You're holding it together."
"I'm keeping his house standing," Ren replied, his eyes never leaving the monitor. "If he wakes up to find I let his empire crumble, I'll never forgive myself."
Near dawn, the surgeon emerged. He was covered in sweat, his mask hanging around his neck. Ren stood up so fast the chair hit the floor.
"The bullet missed the heart by three millimeters," the surgeon said, his voice weary. "The internal bleeding was catastrophic. He is in a medically induced coma. We've stabilized him, but..."
"But what?" Ren demanded, stepping into the doctor's space.
"He's fighting the sedative. Even under the strongest drugs, his heart rate spikes whenever someone touches him. It's like he's searching for something."
Ren didn't wait for another word. He pushed past the doctor and entered the ICU unit.
The room was filled with the rhythmic hum of a ventilator and the steady beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor. Vane looked smaller in the hospital bed, stripped of his suits and his weapons, his chest wrapped in thick white gauze. Tubes ran into his arms, and a mask covered his nose and mouth.
Ren approached the bed, his knees trembling. He reached out and took Vane's hand—the hand that had marked him, saved him, and finally bled for him.
"Vane," Ren whispered, leaning down so his lips were brushed against Vane's ear. "The city is quiet. The Malatestas are forming."
The heart monitor's rhythm shifted. The jagged lines on the screen smoothed out. Vane's fingers gave a weak, microscopic twitch against Ren's palm.
"You told me no one would take me away," Ren said, tears finally spilling over his cheeks, hot and thick. "You said you'd never let me go. I'm holding you to that, Vane.
Wake up. Wake up and take what's yours."
For the next twelve hours, Ren didn't leave the bedside. He ate nothing. He drank nothing. He ignored Julian's pleas to rest.
He sat like a guardian gargoyle, his hand locked in Vane's, his heart fluttering in sync with the machine.
As the sun began to rise over the city, casting a pale gold light through the reinforced glass of the hospital suite, Vane's eyes suddenly snapped open.
They weren't the dazed, confused eyes of a patient. They were sharp, dark, and instantly focused. He looked at Ren, his breathing heavy through the mask. He tried to speak, but the ventilator hissed, blocking the sound.
Vane's hand tightened around Ren's with a strength that shouldn't have been possible for a dying man. It was a crushing, possessive grip—the grip of a man who had walked through the valley of death and found his way back by the scent of the person he owned.
Ren let out a sob of pure, agonizing relief, burying his face in the crook of Vane's neck.
"You're here. You're here."
Vane's hand moved up, tangled in Ren's hair, pulling him closer until their foreheads touched. Through the plastic of the mask, Ren could see Vane's lips move, forming the words he didn't need to hear to understand.
Mine. Always.