The hallway smelled like antiseptic and cold metal as Zane walked behind the nurse. Every step felt too fast and not fast enough, his pulse throbbing in his throat. The lights above them passed in harsh white bars, each one catching the edges of his panic and sharpening it. His palms were still tacky with dried blood, and every time he looked down at them, the memory of Willow collapsing replayed like a blow to the chest.
The prep room door opened with a soft hiss, and he froze in the doorway.
Willow lay propped slightly on the surgical gurney, wearing a light-blue gown and a disposable surgical cap that framed her face in trembling shadows. Wires trailed across her chest. The BP cuff squeezed her arm rhythmically. A pulse-ox monitor glowed red at her fingertip. Her lashes fluttered weakly, her breathing uneven.
She looked fragile in a way that shattered him.
"Willow," he breathed, stepping forward.
