“She fell in the river,” Gabriel snarled at the desk clerk. “From a bridge. No, wondrously, she does not have her wallet with her. Meaning she does not have identification or proof of health insurance.”

It was not as if the hospital was actually refusing Liv treatment. The clerk had simply asked for the information, and hesitated when told why it could not be provided. That hesitation had been enough, though, considering that Gabriel was already in a frothing temper over the paramedics’ slowness in discovering Olivia’s stab wound. A temper which Ricky knew was fueled by the fact that Gabriel himself hadn’t realized she’d been stabbed.

“Her name is Olivia Taylor-Jones,” Ricky said, as calmly as he could. “Her family owns the Mills & Jones department store. She can definitely cover her bills. If you need proof of her identity, just google her name.”

The clerk still hesitated. Ricky resisted the urge to snap at her. Liv had been taken in already and was being assessed. This was merely a formality.

Gabriel snapped cards onto the counter from his soaked wallet. “Visa and American Express Platinum. A hundred-thousand-dollar limit on each, both currently empty because I use this.” He waved his debit card. “If you can point me to an ATM, I can secure you a down payment and those”—he pointed at the credit cards—“are yours to keep. Does that resolve the issue?”

The full force of those ice-ray blue eyes locked on the hapless clerk, and she froze, her mouth opening and closing.

“Take the cards,” Ricky said, pushing them into her hand. “We’ll come back for them later.” Then, to Gabriel, his voice lowering, “Let’s go find Liv.”

Locating the correct floor would have been easier if the desk clerk had been more useful, but Ricky had always known how to get people to do what he wanted—the right smile, the right tone, the right words. He’d always presumed he inherited that from his father. It turned out he was partly right—it was a gift they’d both inherited with their Cŵn Annwn blood. He hadn’t yet told his father about that. He wasn’t sure where to start.

They found the room where Liv was being assessed, and Ricky obtained a promise for an update ASAP, which he got from a harried doctor minutes later.

When the doctor left, Gabriel reached for his inside jacket pocket to pull out his phone or ever-present pad of paper. The coat he was actually wearing contained neither. It was Ricky’s leather jacket. Under it, the borrowed T-shirt was about two sizes too small, stretching tight across Gabriel’s chest. For trousers, he had a pair of jeans from Wallace’s saddlebags. Between the biker jacket, jeans, tight T, and dark stubble, Ricky understood why the desk clerk had been so flustered. She’d probably already alerted the banks to their obviously stolen credit cards.

When Gabriel patted his pockets, scowling, two nurses scuttled out of the way. Ricky jogged to catch up with them and ask a favor. Then he returned and handed Gabriel a sheet of paper and a pen.

Gabriel nodded curtly and began jotting notes. When he reached into his jacket again, he didn’t even have time to scowl before Ricky held out his own phone. This time Ricky got a grunt of thanks, and Gabriel went to work, fingers flying as he searched the words on his list—terms the doctor had used to describe Liv’s condition.

“Can I have that back?” Ricky asked when Gabriel finished and tucked the phone away.

Gabriel started, as if from his thoughts, grunted something semi-apologetic, and returned the phone.

Ricky cleared his throat. “May I borrow your list, too? I remember most of it, but …”

Gabriel glanced over. It took a moment for his eyes to focus, and when they did, he frowned. “Yes, of course,” he said. “You want to know, too … Of course.”

“Let’s go sit down. You still seem a little out of it.”

He got a frosty, “I’m fine, thank you,” for that.

“Well, I’m going over there to sit,” Ricky said.

They sat, and Gabriel explained what he’d found, filling in what they’d gotten from the doctor.

When he got to the part about the stab wound, his voice sharpened with anger.

“You couldn’t have known,” Ricky said.

“I should have.”

“You thought her attacker only pushed her. You didn’t see the blade. Then it was dark, and the blood had washed away.”

“I was careless.”

“And nothing I can say will help, will it?”

“No.”

“So stop trying?”

“Yes.” Then, grudgingly, “Please.”

Ricky shook his head and they lapsed into a silent vigil, both watching the room where Liv lay, out of their reach, beyond their care.

It was 8 a.m. on Wednesday. Almost thirty hours since Liv had been rushed to the hospital. Twenty-four since they’d been allowed into her room. Ricky had checked in on her at seven and then went out to get breakfast for himself and Gabriel. Liv had not regained consciousness. Gabriel had not left her side. Which meant Ricky had spent the night in his apartment, because there was only one bedside chair.

Did he resent that, just a little? Yes, he did. But it was only a little, and ultimately as pointless as … well, as trying to kick Gabriel out of her life. Worse than pointless. Dangerous.

When Ricky first made his play for Liv, he’d made sure Gabriel wasn’t interested in her and then told himself he believed Gabriel’s denials. But that was bullshit. He could tell there’d been more growing between them. Ricky was not an idiot. Nor, however, was he stupidly noble or generous. He wanted Liv, and Liv wanted him, and Gabriel wasn’t stepping up to the plate, so … batter out.