Chapter 232

Serena's POV

"Jesus Christ," Lucas muttered, whipping around to examine Atticus. His polish had given way to raw concern. "Internal bleeding?"

"No... it's not..." Atticus could barely form words between his labored breaths. I watched his knuckles turn white as he gripped the branch, his suit now streaked with blood and dirt.

Lucas's face darkened as he approached Atticus. I could see the sweat beading on Atticus's forehead, his breathing becoming more erratic by the second. Lucas reached out to check his temperature.

"It started right before impact," I said quietly, recognition hitting me like a punch to the gut. "It's drugs."

The signs were unmistakable. Once these episodes began, they spiraled out of control, each wave worse than the last. Fighting through my own pain - pretty sure I had at least one cracked rib - I moved toward Atticus to assess how bad things had gotten.

Lucas's arm shot out like a steel bar across my chest, pulling me roughly against him. His eyes never left Atticus, who was now doubled over, every muscle in his body visibly straining against whatever was tearing him apart from the inside.

"Lucas, let me go," I struggled against his grip, but he might as well have been carved from granite.

"Not happening, Serena," he growled into my ear, his voice carrying authority. "I don't give a damn if you never speak to me again, but I am not letting you handle whatever the hell is happening to him right now."

"Trust me," I shot back, still pushing against his arms, "I couldn't help him even if I wanted to."

"But you know someone who could," I added pointedly, feeling Lucas's body tense as my meaning sank in.

When I finally broke free from his grip, what I saw nearly stopped my heart. Blood was trickling from Atticus's nose, ears, and eyes - at first, I thought it was a trick of the shadows. I carefully held my hand near his face, feeling the warm, sticky liquid on my fingers. His stare sent chills down my spine as more blood seeped from his ears.

My stomach lurched as the pieces fell into place. The Thorne family's reach was longer and darker than I'd imagined. How much of that experimental compound had they forced into his system? The "car accident" was supposed to look like a tragic mishap, but they'd had a backup plan all along.

"Holy shit, what's happening to him?" Brooks, had backed away, his face pale in the moonlight.

Lucas's response was pure ice: "If we don't do something fast, he's not going to make it."

"Where the hell is his medical team?" I demanded, though I knew our phones were somewhere in the twisted metal behind us.

I turned to Lucas desperately. "What are we going to do?"

His expression hardened. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

I bit my lip, considering and discarding options before turning to Brooks, studying his terrified face.

"You'd do anything for him, wouldn't you?" I asked.

"Mr. Thorne saved my family," Brooks answered without hesitation. "I'd take a bullet for him."

"That won't be necessary," I said, lowering my voice to whisper instructions in his ear. His eyes widened like I'd just suggested we rob the bank.

"Look," I pressed on, "either we do this, or he dies right here on this godforsaken wild. His medical team won't make it in time to save him, and we're running out of time."

The driver was visibly torn, wrestling with his decision.

"We'll head out now. Whatever comes next is in your hands," I said, stepping away to give them space.

I try to push myself up, my body betrays me, strength evaporating like morning dew. If it wasn't for pure adrenaline keeping me going through that nightmare, I would've blacked out hours ago.

I'm about to fall sideways, Lucas catches me despite his own injuries. I let myself sink into his embrace, feeling the solid warmth of his chest against my cheek. There's a metallic tang in the air - blood, though I can't tell if it's his or mine anymore.

"Easy there," he murmurs, his voice softened with concern. He lifts me as if I weigh nothing.

I'm not exactly unconscious, just bone-deep exhausted. Now the danger has passed, my body's shutting down hard. I wanted to walk on my own, and Lucas is hurt too. But I can't even keep my eyes open, let alone stand.

I drift in and out, cradled against his chest. Through the fog, I hear voices, radio chatter, and the thunderous approach of helicopter blades. Atticus's security team, finally showing up.

Everything goes dark.

When I surface again, I'm somewhere unfamiliar. Not my apartment, not Lucas's penthouse. I try to focus, but my head feels stuffed with cotton, like I've been under too long, like I've slept through an entire season.

"Welcome back," Lucas says, his voice in gentle tone.

I turn toward him, taking in his familiar features, now mapped with cuts and bruises. His usual polish is decidedly mussed, though somehow he still manages to look like a grace prince.

"Where..." my voice comes out like sandpaper on steel.

"Portland," he says, then adds with a slight smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, "Maine, not Oregon. You're safe here."

I want to laugh at that. Safe in Thorne territory is relative, but I can barely lift my head, let alone argue politics.

"Let me help," he says, easing me up with the kind of careful precision. The room spins lazily as he arranges pillows behind me. That's when I notice the IV stand and medical equipment - someone's turned this luxury vacation home into a private hospital room.

"Water?" he offers, already reaching for a crystal tumbler.

"Yeah," I manage, my throat feeling like I've swallowed the Sahara.

Lucas pours filtered water with practiced ease. "Need help?"

"I got it," I insist, but when I try to lift my arm, it feels like it's made of lead. Even breathing seems like an Olympic event.

"Serena," he struggled to contain his excitement, his eyes twinkling with a gentle warmth, "you've been out for three days. The only thing keeping you going has been IV fluids and prayer. Let me help."

I stare at him, processing. "Three days?"

"Seventy-two hours and seventeen minutes," he confirms. "But you're awake now. That's what matters."

His voice stays steady, calibrated for maximum soothing effect. "Take it slow. Your body needs time to reboot. I'll have Walter bring up some homemade soup. His grandmother's recipe - the one thing from Connecticut he actually brags about."

With tender care, he held the cup to my lips, tilting it ever so gently. His cautious devotion touched me deeply, warming my heart.

"Lucas," I said softly, my voice still hoarse. Since regaining consciousness, a shadow has loomed over me. The numbness in my legs fills me with dread - I'm terrified of facing my worst fears, of what this might mean for my future.

"Hmm?"

"Did I keep all my limbs? Just checking."