Chapter 19 He grunted, the sound punched out of him, and heat spread down his back where the blade went in. Still, Gideon Holt locked his arms around Angela Summers and kicked free with everything he had. The men took one look at the blood blooming across his coat and broke. Spooked by the fight and the gore, they scrambled into the dark and ran. With the danger gone, whatever was holding him up let go. He loosened his grip on her; his body swayed and slowly went over backward. The knife stuck out of his back; blood pooled fast beneath him; his face drained to ash. "Gideon!" Angela caught him as he slid, her hands slicking red in an instant. She stared at his face-close enough to count each washed-out lash-and for a beat her mind emptied out. He forced his lids up, eyes unfocusing. He looked at her and lifted a shaking hand, as if to touch her cheek, then let it fall. Gripping her sleeve, he tried to form the words. "Angela... I'm sorry... I was blind... so wrong... I owe you more than... a lifetime will cover..." He dragged in a breath, and in his eyes regret-as lowly as dust-flickered alongside something like a final blessing. "Live well... take my share... with yours...' His eyes slid shut. His hand dropped. He went limp. Something hard and heavy cracked the frozen surface of Angela's chest, and the fissures began to run. Ten years of sweetness and hurt, hope and ruin, slid strangely far away. No screaming. No hysterics. She sealed her hands over the wound and pressed until her forearms shook. Then she ran for the nearest phone, called an ambulance, and then the police. She rode with him and told the ER exactly what they needed to know. She paid the first charges out of pocket. Outside the operating-room doors, the red light glowed. Her face gave nothing away, but her fingers trembled. Maybe love and hate had burned themselves out over the decade. What was left felt like a thin mercy-and the quiet, complicated ache that comes from seeing how small people are against the weather of their lives. Antiseptic hung acrid in the air. Gideon lay colorless under the hospital lights, lips cracked, breath thin and shallow. The blade had punctured a lung. He'd lost massive blood. They fought for him all night, and finally dragged him back from the edge. He lived. The doctor's expression said the rest. The lung was scarred for good. No more hard exertion. On rainy days he would struggle to draw air; the cough might last a lifetime. His strength was broken. Getting back any kind of health would take a long, careful climb. His commanders came by-men who had known him at his strongest-and looked stricken. They also brought orders. Given his condition, he could no longer hold a high-stress command; he was advised to transfer to a civilian post and recuperate. So the famous Captain Holt's career likely ended here, with a thud. As for Elaine Ward: the case was clean. Conspiracy to commit assault, plus the earlier frauds and lies piled on. The judge threw the book at her. She went to prison. The Wards fell with her. The woman Gideon had once held up to the sun was gone from their lives, leaving only wreckage and a bad taste in old memories. Florence Florence is a passionate reader who finds joy in long drives on rainy days. She's also a fan of Italian makeup tutorials, blending beauty and elegance into her everyday life.