Vice and Void (The Savage Wolves Brotherhood #1)

46. Chapter 46

Chapter 46

Dakota

Hot tears leaked from the corners of Dakota’s eyes as one of the menders slid the needle into her hand. A flash of blood appeared in the tubing before she glided the catheter in and secured it with tape. Dakota could taste the IV fluids as they began to flow into her vein, a back of the throat saltiness mixed with old plastic that she couldn’t wait to rid herself of.

But that wasn’t why she was crying.

It wasn’t even the throbbing pain of the gunshot in her elbow, the bandage dyed crimson with the blood still leaking from her wound. James wasn’t on duty that night, and it was some other alchemist who hadn’t been prepared for her arrival. Dakota got a few drops of Pain before he shuffled off to dig up more distills, though that had worn off after a few blissful minutes.

That wasn’t why she was crying, either.

Hunter’s face swam in her mind. His parted lips, his open expression, his slightly raised brows. He had hunched when the bullet lodged in his abdomen, had let out a huff of breath when his kneecaps cracked against the cement, and had shivered when the last of death escaped him.

The prison guard who reached her first stepped over Hunter’s body like it was nothing but a piece of garbage in an alley. “Are you okay?” he asked as he eyed her mangled arm. “He’s already gone.” He added that when he seemed to note her locked stare. The way he said it was callous and unfeeling, which made a visceral hatred for the guard twist in her chest.

Of course, she wasn’t okay. She was the furthest thing from okay. But she couldn’t think about herself. Not as Hunter’s unseeing eyes still stared at the starless night above them—eyes the same color as his eldest daughter’s. Or how water from the puddle he landed in was soaking into his pants, and could someone dry him off before he got too cold? That was the least of his worries. Because he was dead.

“Sorry, did I hurt you?”

Dakota hadn’t realized her face had scrunched into a grimace. The mender seated on a rolling stool next to her gurney was looking over at her, his hands wrapped around her bicep as he readjusted the blood pressure cuff. She shook her head, afraid that if she opened her mouth, then vomit would come up instead. Still, he proceeded with a slow caution that she wanted to tell him was unnecessary.

“What were you doing at the prison?” a familiar voice asked over the chaos of the trauma bay. Dakota’s eyes left her lap for the first time since she landed on the gurney, the gaps between menders opening just enough to show her father’s frame gracing the doorway.

She wished those gaps would swallow her whole.

John Montgomery stared at her like he expected an answer. She knew that he did expect an answer. She didn’t know how to give him one. The menders around her scattered into the corners of the trauma bay, and she recognized it for something she often did—getting out of the way while maintaining a healthy distance to overhear the conversation. She wished Thalia was there. Thalia would have marched up to him and ordered him to get lost.

“Business,” Dakota managed to croak.

John’s nostrils flared in response as the alchemist pushed past, a bundle of distills in his hand. “Pain. Healing. Blood Replenishing.” He hadn’t seemed to realize what he walked into. “Guess I don’t need to explain what they’re all for.” His aloof laugh ground on her in a way she didn’t expect, but she took the distills from him nonetheless.

“What business?” John wasn’t going to let this go. Whether it was due to his displeasure in being cast aside for his alchemist daughter or genuine concern for her well-being, Dakota didn’t know. She suspected the former. Genuine concern for her well-being wasn’t something John Montgomery was known for.

“Alchemist business. ”

Her throbbing pain slowly fizzled away as the distill took root in her arm, and the heaviness in her chest began to lift. That was the blood replenishing. She glanced to the side as the bandage on her elbow loosened, and the alchemist let out a low whistle as he took in the carnage of her arm.

“You really did a number on yourself,” he said. As though she had aimed the gun at her arm and pulled the trigger. What a stupid fucking thing to say. “We’ll put this Healing on there and get you patched up in no time. Ranger, you can continue questioning her if you’d like.”

Dakota had no doubts that he would have done that regardless. John took a single step into the room, further managing to suck the oxygen out of it as he narrowed eyes on her.

“We’ve got one dead. A Hunter Donovan. Know him?”

“Yes,” she replied softly. A sizzle sounded from her arm as the alchemist let a series of Healing droplets fall to her wound. She welcomed the pain.

“And the shooter is in the wind.”

“Duke Malone,” she corrected him. John raised his brows. “Duke Malone was the shooter.”

John let out a huff of laughter that in no way seemed amused. He didn’t move an inch as a mender squeezed past him to enter the hallway, a bag of blood-filled vials in her hand. “What was Duke Malone doing at the prison with a gun?”

“Maybe you should ask him.”

That was the wrong thing to say. John took another step inside, storm clouds gathering at the edges of his dark eyes. “Every time I have to investigate something, it seems like you’re in the midst of it.”

Dakota trained her face to remain impassive as her father searched for any cracks or weaknesses in her resolve. “A happy coincidence.” She didn’t have the strength to play this cat-and-mouse game with him. Not anymore. Once, it was demeaning. Now, it was exhausting.

John opened his mouth to respond when another voice shouted from the hallway.

“Where is she? What room?”

“Sir, I need you to calm down. Please.”

“Fuck that, and fuck you,” the second voice was female, instantly recognizable. “She’s my best friend.”

“The alchemist is seeing her—“

“Dakota!”

“Sir, this is highly—“ Whatever the mender thought it was, Dakota never found out. Callum burst across the threshold a moment later, bringing the fresh scent of rain and autumn cold with him. Lyra was tight on his heels, the fronts of her sweatpants speckled with water.

The relief on Callum’s face when he locked his eyes on hers was immediate, and he dropped into the rolling stool vacated by the mender. He reached over the gurney’s railing, threading his fingers with hers to pull her hand to his mouth. “Fuck, Dakota, when I heard—when I thought—“ His other hand slid behind her head to grip her hair. As though he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe she was here.

Dakota turned away from her father, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes again. He was here. Her person. Her foundation. Those tears burned hotter than the gunshot wound, filled with grief and reprieve. Of sorrow and joy. “It was Hunter.” The words felt thick as they crossed her lips.

“I know, princess. I’ve already made some calls about his kids.” Callum lifted his hand from the back of her head to tuck a tangled lock behind her ear. “It’s the least I can do for—fuck. I could have lost you.” His voice broke, and he didn’t bother to hide it as he gazed at her. “I could have fucking lost you.”

“You didn’t. I’m here.”

Lyra leaned over Callum’s shoulder to kiss Dakota on the temple. “We’re not leaving your side until you’re outta here. I can’t believe…Duke of all people. I’m gonna throttle him if I get the chance to lay my hands on him.”

Dakota swallowed, a bubble of guilt rising. She knew exactly why Duke had come after her. She suspected Callum did, too. Was Duke even still alive? A flashed memory of the death fog chasing him, his desperation to claw the mark from his skin. She drew a calming breath that didn’t quite fill her lungs as she intended.

“You.”

She almost forgot her father was still in the room with them. The vein in his puce-colored forehead pulsed, and this time, the alchemist tending to her wound glanced up from his work. Callum didn’t look away from her. Even when they were younger, he could never take his eyes off her.

John’s boots fell heavy against the wax-linoleum floor as he crossed the trauma bay. His hand shot out before anyone could intervene, grasping the back of Callum’s shirt and yanking him. The stool shot away, banging against a set of cabinets on the far wall.

“Dad!” Dakota gasped. She struggled to lean forward, but Lyra pushed her back .

The two men sized each other up like they did twelve years before, with little to no space between their chests. The only difference now? Callum was no longer an eighteen-year-old boy. The years had hardened him and had clearly swept away any lingering nerve he had around John Montgomery.

“Lay your hands on me again, and that’ll be the last fucking thing you do.”

John’s jaw ticked. “I told you to stay away from her.”

“You and I both knew that was never going to happen. You knew from the second she landed back in this city.” Callum closed the inches between them as a set of menders rushed into the bay, accompanied by a security officer who looked like he would rather be anywhere else.

“Callum! Dad!”

Her father trembled, his hand flexing as though readying to grab the gun from his holster. Callum looked ready to do the same. Years of resentment, of contempt, building to a crescendo that Dakota knew couldn’t be undone.

“Ranger! Really, is this how—“

“I know what the Brotherhood does. I know how they operate. I just wanted to protect her.”

Callum’s snort echoed through the bay, eclipsing the beeps and chirps from the monitor fastened above Dakota’s head. The blood pressure cuff began to fill, the sudden whoosh of air and pressure surrounding her arm startling her. Lyra’s hand tightened on her shoulder, her eyes pinging back and forth between the two men.

But John’s voice dropped into an angry hiss, a serpent on the verge of striking. “We both know what she is. And, from the tattoo on her hip, neither of us has told her. It doesn’t make you better than me or me better than you. What it makes me is a father trying to protect the only fucking thing I have left.”

Dakota froze, her lips parting as her mouth went slack. “What?”

Neither of the men paid her any mind. Callum smirked, shaking his head. “You’ve got a real fucking funny way of showing it. You had your head shoved so far up your ass that you didn’t even realize your own deputy was stalking your daughter.”

John looked like he had been slapped.

“You spent all this time protecting her from me. You didn’t even see the bigger picture, John.” Callum’s voice became a whisper-shout, one so low that Dakota had to lean forward. “She already made a deal.”

The red flush on her father’s face drained comically, leaving him with a sallow complexion only made paler by his salt-and-pepper hair. “With who? For who?”

Callum’s gaze slid to Lyra, something that Dakota didn’t miss. Beside her, Lyra stiffened. “If you have to ask that question, you already know the answer.” He swallowed and shook his head, though he still didn’t yield any space to the Ranger. “It’s already too late. He’s coming for her.”

John pressed his lips into a tight, white slash. “This is your fault, Callum Reynolds.” Callum let out an incredulous bark of laughter that only knitted her father’s brows together further. “If you weren’t involved, if that stupid piece of trash over there wasn’t involved—“

“Hey—“ Dakota started but was swiftly cut off by her father.

“If she hadn’t gotten involved with the Brotherhood. If you hadn’t gotten her pregnant—“

Callum’s expression slackened, his gaze hardening to something that resembled a promise of death. It was the first time in as long as she could remember that Dakota was truly fearful for what he would do next.

“What did you say to me?”

“How did you know?” Dakota asked, her heart pounding so viciously in her chest that she was sure it would end up in her lap. She felt it in her fingers, in her toes, beating through her eardrums. The alchemist at her side smartly slunk away, sliding his hand into his coat pocket to dump the vials in with a soft clink.

John didn’t deem her worthy of a response, keeping his glare leveled on Callum. “You heard me. I pulled a prison guard over for speeding and took my chance. He wrote me that letter, and I had another deliver it. And it worked for twelve fucking years.”

“You heard me sob for weeks!” Dakota shouted. She didn’t care that half the Guildhall was loitering outside the trauma bay. She didn’t care that Lyra’s fingernails bit into her shoulder. “Weeks, Dad!”

“And I would do it again! Happily!” John roared back, finally whipping his head to look at her. “Anything to keep you from being tied to him.”

Dakota watched it happen in slow motion and did nothing to stop it. She watched as Callum took a step back, watched as his hand curled into a fist, and watched as he reeled back his elbow to connect his knuckles with the side of her father’s jaw.

“Callum!” Lyra admonished. “He’s a Ranger!”

John dropped like a heavy stone thrown into a river. His hand flew up to clutch at his face, disbelief etched into every feature. One of the menders near the main desk tripped over themselves to run down the hall—presumably to grab a second security guard when the first stood at the entrance with his mouth ajar.

Callum stood over John, an odd calm blanketing his expression. Anger? Grief? Pain? It was hard to read him. “I’ll never forgive you for that,” he said as John clambered to his feet. He rubbed at his jaw, though his flush seemed to be aimed at humiliation rather than fear or rage. “I should have known. That was my fucking kid, John. My fucking woman—“

“You’ll regret doing that.”

Dakota’s heart skipped. It wasn’t a quiet threat but a promise. And she knew he would see it through.

Callum only smiled. “More than I regret not being by her side the last twelve years? Impossible.”

As her father swept out of the trauma bay, not bothering to look behind him as he went, questions lit up her mind. What had they kept from her? How long had they known whatever it was? The most pressing thought of all: when would John Montgomery show up at their door to follow through on his promise?