“Oh, God,” Logan muttered, the words escaping without any conscious thought, as he ran a hand through his hair. Gripping the back of his neck, he sucked his top lip behind his lower teeth, trying to keep the shout that was bubbling up inside him from slipping free.

“I know this is hard to hear. Do you want me to stop?” Shelly reached for his arm, a physical show of support.

Logan shook his head and tried to stave off the tears—he needed to hold it together.

“Okay. After they inserted a drain and relieved the air in the lung, his condition deteriorated and they had to place him on a ventilator. They thought that would be enough, that it would get him through the safety window and on the road to healing, but around thirty minutes ago, one of my colleagues was called to his room. Tate’s condition…” She paused, and Logan didn’t dare look away from her. “It’s continued to deteriorate, and they’ve started differential lung ventilation.”

He’d tried to keep up with all of the medical jargon she’d been throwing his way, and he’d understood most, but the last part… “What’s that mean? Differential?” His voice was scratchy, and he knew it was from fighting back the emotional lump in his throat all day and his lack of actually speaking.

When Shelly stepped in beside him and ran her hand down his arm to take his hand, he looked at her sympathetic eyes and felt his entire body shudder.

Obviously, it meant nothing good.

“It means he’s on two ventilators, one going into each lung. They’re doing additional x-rays now, and we’ll know more soon.”

“Fucking hell,” Logan cursed, unable to think of anything else that even remotely relayed every feeling he was having in that moment.

Tate was somewhere in here, with God knows how many tubes and needles going in and out of him, and he wasn’t able to do a fucking thing. He was useless. Helpless. And the more he thought about it, the more enraged he became.

“Did you see anyone back there with him?” he grit out. “He shouldn’t be alone through all of this, and since the guard dogs at your front desk won’t let me back…”

Shelly winced, appearing uncomfortable, but then she said softly, “His parents are in there. And so is another woman.”

Logan let the rage inside him boil over, welcoming the emotion, as he pushed off the wall and stalked away from Shelly.

Best to be nowhere close—he felt homicidal.

“His parents are in there? Jesus, no wonder his condition is deteriorating. I thought you were supposed to be around people who love you to heal, and he’s stuck with his ex-wife and the parents who disowned him? Awesome job. This hospital is really on top of their shit.”

“Logan?” Shelly said.

“What?” he snapped, rounding on her. He knew that it wasn’t her fault, but at this stage, she was the only one around to let his anger out on. “The man I love is somewhere in this fucking building, surrounded by people who practically threw him out on the road like a piece of garbage. I’m not even allowed back there to see him. What a goddamn joke.”

“I know this is frustrating.”

“Frustrating?” he mocked. “No, you know what’s frustrating? When you see someone you really want to fuck and can’t because they keep saying no. I’ve been frustrated. This…this is agony. Torment beyond anything I’ve ever felt before.” He paused and closed his eyes before whispering, “This is hell.”

Shelly came over to him and clasped his hands. “Let me see what I can do about getting you in there, okay? Until then, I’ll keep an eye on his progress. Hey?”

Logan looked at her. “Yeah?”

“He’s lucky to have you.”

Logan nodded as she stepped around him.

“Will you be okay getting back to the waiting room?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, his anger having drained from him.

“Okay. I have rounds, but I’ll be back before I go home. If anything changes, I’ll let you know. Hang in there. He’s going to need you when he wakes.”

As she walked away from him, Logan was left with the one thought he’d been trying to avoid. “If” he wakes.

The sun had risen a little over two hours ago, and as the clock in the waiting room hit eight, Logan stretched his neck from side to side. He’d just finished telling Cole and Rachel what Shelly had said, and after getting over the initial shock of the severity of Tate’s condition, Cole had volunteered to get them some real coffee.

As Logan bent over and rested his elbows on his knees, he rubbed his hands over his weary face. The day-old stubble scratched against his palms, and he realized just how unkempt he was. His jacket was a crumpled mess beside him, and his tie hung loosely around his neck. They all looked like hell, which was understandable considering the day and night they’d had.

Cole had tried to convince him to go home and take a shower, but there was no force on Earth strong enough to make him leave that hospital.

He wanted to see Tate. He needed to see for himself that he was still there—still here with me. And until he got that, he was going nowhere.

Trying to occupy himself, he undid the buttons at his wrists and started to roll the sleeves up his arms. When he was halfway done with the second, the double doors pushed open and the woman he’d ironically been hoping would walk out…did.

Diana Cline—or should he say, Diana Morrison—stopped just outside the doors and scanned the waiting room. Her eyes hadn’t found him yet, and as Logan got to his feet, he noted that Tate’s ex looked terrible.

Her hair was in a mess of a bun on top of her head, she was dressed in baggy sweatpants, and the sweater she had on looked three sizes too big. She looked like a woman who’d been sitting at home and had to suddenly drop everything and go somewhere.

Diana looked as bad as he felt.

When her eyes finally skidded to a stop and latched on to his, his palms started sweating and he had to move them to his pants to wipe them. This was it. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. The moment where, if he needed to, he’d grovel at her feet to see Tate—even if it was only for a second.

He took a step toward her, and when her eyes widened, Logan raised a hand, trying to convey he was…what? Coming in peace?

Diana’s chin started to quiver as he continued to approach her. Her red-rimmed eyes blinked frantically, and Logan’s pulse picked up. He was so close, but just as he opened his mouth to say something, she clutched her handbag across her body, turned, and ran out the automatic doors.

Fuck. “Diana!” he called out. No. Damn it, he thought as he watched her go.

He was two seconds away from chasing after her when the doors opened again and there, standing directly in front of him, was Tate’s father.

“Mr. Mitchell, isn’t it?”

Logan dropped his hand to his side and tried to get his mouth to work. But as he stood before Mr. Morrison, all he could think about was the last time he’d seen this man and that he had Tate’s eyes.

Then he said something Logan had never expected to hear. “We need to talk.”

Logan followed Tate’s father over to an empty area in the waiting room. Rachel’s eyes were on them, and Logan gave a small nod of his head, indicating that he was okay, before he took a seat opposite the exhausted-looking man.

“Is he okay?” Logan rushed out, not knowing what he was there to say but needing to ask someone who’d seen him.

“He’s in rough shape.”

“If you’re here to tell me to leave, you can forget it,” he said. “I’m not going until I see him. If I have to wait two days, two weeks, two fucking months—I’m not leaving.”

Tate’s father held his hand up and nodded grimly. “I’m not here to tell you to leave.”

Logan swallowed back his next argument and instead asked, “You’re not?”

Mr. Morrison met his gaze head on, reminding Logan so much of his son. There was no argument Tate would back down from, and Logan could see where he’d gotten his determination.