BORROWED TIME

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Chapter 58– Borrowed Time

Vincent wasn't breathing right.

Zane could hear it.

Feel it.

Each breath—too shallow, too unsteady—felt like a countdown to the inevitable.

And Zane?

He wasn't fucking ready.

"Faster," he snapped, gripping Vincent tighter as he and Cain moved through the darkened streets. "He's getting worse."

Cain didn't argue.

Didn't waste time pointing out what they both already knew.

Instead, he pressed forward, steps quick and purposeful, leading them to the safehouse that Vincent had just told them not to go to.

Zane's stomach twisted.

They didn't have a choice.

Didn't have time to figure something else out.

And that?

That was what terrified him most.

Vincent didn't trust the safehouse.

And if Vincent didn't trust it—

Then Zane shouldn't either.

But what the fuck else were they supposed to do?

They turned a corner, Cain moving to unlock the door.

Zane shifted Vincent in his arms, his pulse spiking when Vincent's head lolled, dangerously close to unconsciousness.

"Hey," Zane hissed, shaking him. "Eyes open. Now."

Vincent groaned weakly. "…Loud."

Zane exhaled sharply, relief cutting through the fear.

But it didn't last.

Cain shoved the door open. "Inside. Now."

Zane didn't hesitate.

Didn't think.

Just moved.

The room was dimly lit, small, barely more than a hideout. But it was quiet. Safe—for now.

Cain locked the door behind them. "Get him on the table."

Zane laid Vincent down carefully, swallowing hard when he saw how much blood was smeared across his skin.

Vincent's lashes fluttered. His lips parted—like he was trying to say something—

But he didn't.

Because in the next second—

His body jerked.

Zane's breath caught.

"Vincent?"

No response.

No movement.

Cain's voice was sharp. "He's going into shock."

Zane barely heard him.

Barely registered the words through the roar in his head.

Vincent wasn't responding.

Wasn't moving.

Cain grabbed his shoulder. "Zane—"

"Do something!" Zane snapped, voice cracking.

Cain didn't hesitate. He pulled out a knife.

Zane flinched. "What the hell are you—"

Cain met his gaze. "Getting the bullet out."

Zane's chest tightened.

He wasn't ready for this.

Wasn't ready to watch this.

But Vincent?

Vincent didn't have time for Zane to figure it out.

So Zane clenched his fists.

And let Cain work.

And if his hands shook as he pressed down on Vincent's shoulder, keeping him still—

Neither of them said a damn thing.

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The Worst Kind of Silence

Cain worked fast.

Too fast.

Zane's breathing was ragged, knuckles white as he kept Vincent from thrashing off the table.

Vincent was burning up.

His body jerking involuntarily as Cain's knife dug deeper.

And the worst part?

Vincent wasn't screaming.

He wasn't cursing, or growling, or fighting the way he usually did.

He was just silent.

And Zane—

Zane hated that more than anything.

"Fuck," Cain hissed under his breath, blood soaking into his gloves. "I can't—" He exhaled sharply. "It's lodged deep."

Zane clenched his jaw. "Then pull it out."

Cain glared at him. "It's near an artery. If I slip—"

"I don't care," Zane growled. "Just fix it."

Cain's eyes darkened.

Then, with a muttered curse, he pressed down harder.

Vincent's fingers twitched.

A pained breath escaped his lips, and for a second—just a second—Zane thought he was waking up.

But then—

Nothing.

Vincent's breathing hitched—his body going still again.

Zane's heart stopped.

"Cain—"

"I know," Cain snapped, working faster.

Blood.

There was too much blood.

Cain's jaw clenched as he yanked something free—

A bullet.

Small. Twisted.

Dripping red.

Cain cursed under his breath, grabbing the nearest cloth and pressing it against Vincent's wound. "Hold it," he barked.

Zane was already moving.

His hands weren't steady.

His mind was spinning.

But he pressed down hard, blood seeping between his fingers.

Cain was already reaching for a needle. "He's lost too much," he muttered. "He needs—"

A sound.

Too quiet.

Too wrong.

Zane's blood turned to ice.

He looked down.

Vincent's lips were parted—his breath shallow.

Too shallow.

"Vincent?" Zane's voice cracked. He shook him. "Hey—hey."

No response.

Zane's chest tightened. "Vincent!"

Nothing.

Zane barely noticed Cain cursing beside him.

Barely registered the way Cain moved frantically, pressing fingers to Vincent's pulse.

"Come on, come on," Cain muttered, pressing harder. "Don't do this—"

Zane's vision blurred.

This wasn't happening.

It wasn't fucking happening.

Vincent wasn't—

He wasn't—

A sharp inhale.

Vincent's chest rose.

Shaky. Weak.

But it was there.

Zane let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, his entire body shaking.

Cain exhaled sharply. "You asshole."

Zane didn't move.

Didn't say anything.

Just watched as Vincent's breath evened out—slow, unsteady, but real.

Cain sighed, rolling his shoulders. "He'll make it."

Zane swallowed hard.

His throat felt tight.

Like if he spoke—if he let go of the breath still caught in his lungs—

He might break.

Cain glanced at him. "Hey."

Zane looked up.

Cain's expression was unreadable. "You didn't let go."

Zane exhaled sharply.

His fingers were still clenched in Vincent's shirt—gripping like if he let go, Vincent would disappear.

Zane forced his hands to relax.

Then, quietly—

"I never do."

Cain didn't argue.

Didn't say a word.

Just turned away, gathering supplies to stop the rest of the bleeding.

And Zane?

Zane just sat there, staring at Vincent's chest, rising and falling—

Proof that he was still here.

Proof that he was still breathing.

And for now—

That was enough.

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