Shock—a cold blast followed by a surging rush of heat rocketed across Victory's nerves. Blood, so much blood, it spread out from under Gage, a crimson glassy blanket over slate tile. The rush of her pulse echoed loudly with deafening beats, blocking out Derek's voice as he stood over Gage, gun cocked and wild fury in his eyes.

Victory lunged, so fast she almost flew, seizing the red-hot handle of the skillet, she barely felt the pain, and heaved. The boiling sauce she'd slaved over caught him full in the face, and the scream that tore from his throat was the wailing shriek of agony.

Lifting the bat Gage dropped, she swung, aiming first for his arm, cracking down at the joint. Metal sang, bone crunched and he dropped the gun, his cry ringing in her ears and she swung again, this time to his left knee. Then his right shoulder. Derek collapsed to the ground, huddled in a ball, screaming as she laid into him.

Again. Again. Even when he stopped screaming. Stopped moving.

Arms came around from behind, lifting her off her feet, wrestling away the bat. Victory screamed, fought and struggled, but they held her fast.

"Victory." Roarke's voice sliced through the bloody haze of her rage. "Victory. Stop!"

Panting, arms heavy and eyes wide, she ceased in her struggles. Sirens, she heard the wail of them in the background. Police. Help.

"Did I kill him?" She rasped, throat raw as the ache in her heart. "Is he dead?"

Roarke saw the struggling rise of Derek's shattered chest, and was momentarily tempted to finish the bastard off. "No, but he'll wish he was soon enough."

"Oh god, Gage." Pushing from him, she fell to her knees in the pool of blood with Roarke beside her, turning him over to check Gage's pulse. Fingers at his neck, Roarke found a weak and thready pulse.

"He's alive." His voice hoarse and cheeks pale. Levering himself, Roarke braced both hands over the open wound to staunch the flowing stream of blood. "Dammit, you stupid jackass, hold on."

Men in uniform burst in, officers with guns drawn and shouting.

"My brother's been shot. By—him, over there." Roarke gestured to the unconscious pile of Derek. "Ambulance, we need an ambulance." One of the officers lowered his gun and veered down the hall, shouting into his radio for the medical team.

"How did you know?" Victory whispered as the ambulatory crew scurried in, muscling her and Roarke out of the way to crowd around Gage.

"Emergency response from the alarm system." Unsteady, Roarke swept a shaky hand through his hair, leaving a streak of red in the gold. "Matthias and I got the warning, and I knew...I knew something wasn't right. Called the police and the operator told me they'd received a distress call and that police were on their way."

"He's so still," she whispered, hands pressed to her mouth. "Roarke, I tried to warn him. I tried to..."

Roarke drew her against him as the medics trundled his brother into the gurney, a breathing bag over his face, one squeezing the sac, administering oxygen while the other slotted in an IV.

"He's in critical condition." The third explained as the other two took Gage out to the waiting ambulance. "We're taking him to St. Michaels."

"We're riding with you." Roarke replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. "That's my brother, and so long as his life hangs in the balance, I'll throw fists with anyone who thinks to keep me from his side."

"I understand." The medic nodded, shifting his somber eyes to Victory. "Is she family?"

"His fiancée." Roarke answered before she managed to find her voice.

Victory didn't remember much of the ride in, only the sight of Gage, strapped into the medical gurney, skin white and chest barely rising for breath, and the sound of the machines, beeping and whirling, fighting to keep him alive. The doctors let them get as far as the hall before they're were pushed back and told to wait in the lounge.

The minutes bled into what felt like hours—days—before she heard the flood of voices as Niobe, Shayne, Matthias, Jackson and Paige came rushing to the waiting room, a flurry of questions and concern.

Where is he?

Is he alright?

Is he stable?

What happened?

Questions piled, overlapped, and Roarke, hair still streaked with his brother's blood, fielded most of them.

As everyone crowded around Roarke, straining to hear what he had to say, Victory was the first to see the doors burst open as the doctor and nurse rushed towards them, eyes grim and faces set in an unreadable clinical expressions.

"Are you Mr. Donovan?" The doctor, a wire thin man with a sparse head of grey hair and thick black frames halted abruptly in front of Roarke, thrust out a liver-spotted hand. "I'm Dr. Gora, the Chief Surgeon treating your brother. I thought you should know we have him stabilized, but his condition is still highly critical at this juncture. The problem is, he's lost a lot of blood. And his type is exceedingly short in supply, at the moment."

"What does that mean?" Roarke frowned, his hand in Shayne's and the knuckles white. He had to be hurting her, Victory knew, but Shayne would take the pain, even if meant broken fingers, before she would ever let go. That was love. That was sacrifice.

"Are you saying you don't have enough in store to treat him?"

"Precisely." Dr. Gora lifted a bony shoulder in regret. "Blood donations have declined steadily over the last few years, and B negative has fallen into deficit. His blood type allows him to be a universal donor, but as a recipient, he can only receive the same type. I was hoping you and your brother are blood compatible?"

"I'm B positive." Roarke answered, despair weighing on his shoulders and grating in his voice. "My Dad, I think he's negative, but he's in LA. It would take at least...six, maybe seven hours to get here if he caught a direct flight right now."

Dr. Gora's face flickered with concern. "I'm afraid that'll be too late."

"Me." Victory pushed to her feet, faced the doctor. "I'm AB, compatible with all types across the board. Take what you need."

Dr. Gora's eyes traversed the length of her, frowned. "He's lost a substantial amount, Miss. I fear it might be more than you can spare."

"Victory," Roarke gravely set a hand on her shoulder. "I can't let you put yourself in risk for him. He wouldn't want that."

She shrugged it off, her eyes resilient and mind set. "I love him, Roarke. I can't let him die. I won't. Do it." Facing Dr. Gora, she rolled up her sleeve, thrust out her bare arm.

"He saved my life. Let me save his."

#

Rapping a knuckle against the jamb, Roarke saw her eyes swing to him, heavy lidded and glazed, but a little more focused then they had been.

"I thought I'd find you here." He smiled, then angled his head, his eyes softening in sympathy. "You're looking about as rough as I feel." And he did look rough, she thought, with his usually smooth face roughened with worry and stubble, eyes shadowed with exhaustion, and the rest of him as tousled as his golden hair mauled by his restless hands.

"I thought you could use this." Roarke handed over one of the two cups of coffee he held to Victory. Leaning back in the chair she'd spent most of the night sleeping in after losing near two pints of blood, she'd faced a couple hours, weak and woozy, but after a proper meal and some rest, she was feeling stronger. Only fear lingered now.

"Thanks." Grateful, she accepted the coffee, sipped and tried not to wince against the acrid bite of the stale brew.

"Christ, I've got to sit down a minute." Roarke sighed, sliding into the seat next to her. "I thought you could use some breakfast." He gave the wrapped parcel he carried a little wiggle as he handed over one of the two cups to Victory.

He joined her at her desk, portioning out overcooked scrambled eggs, a few strips of dry bacon and stingy sausage he'd grabbed on the way over. The food was foul but they both ate with a sort of quiet, desperation born of exhaustion and starved hunger.

"Thanks for that." Victory sighed, washing down the last of her breakfast with the dregs of her coffee. "Are my parents still here?"

"Yes. Bless your mom, she's fussing over the lot of us. Making sure we're well taken care of. She was the one who made the run to bring us the food."

Shifting in her seat, Victory set down her empty cup, her eyes skimming over Gage. So still, but there it was—the steady rise and fall of his chest, the constant flash and dance of his vitals on the monitor. He was alive. He would live. Knowing that, believing that, gave her peace.

"Doctors think he's through the worst of it. Everyone else refuses to leave the lounge. They're all stretched out and sleeping, determined to be here when this big idiot finally decides to quit milking it."

Victory smiled at that, sipped again, closing her eyes as she angled her head left than right to loosen the kinks of tension in her neck.

"I have been that scared," Roarke murmured, "since it was Shayne lying in a hospital bed after getting shot." Because he needed it, he reached out, took Victory's hand, and held on. The pair of them, united in their love for the same man.

"To think that bullet..." and because every time he pictured it, Roarke felt his own grief and fear punch through the plate of his chest with as much violence, he pressed a hand there, held it. "Missed by stray hairs."

"He almost died for me." She whispered, keeping her eyes close as her stomach insisted on trying to jump into her throat. "I don't deserve him."

"Fuck that." Roarke snapped, voice low and suddenly furious. "You keep talking that shit and I might try and kill you myself. Look at me."

She didn't want to look at him, she didn't want to see the anger in his eyes though she deserved every sharp punch of his anger, resentment and frustration. All of it, and more and because the guilt was so raw, she embraced the punishing ache and met his stare that carried not just the heat of fury, but the icy shock of sorrow.

"My brother loves you. And he's not a moron who would give his heart blindly. You messed up, but I trust you to come around to your senses. I know you love him, now you have a chance to prove it. I don't care what the doctor's say," seething, he pushed from his chair. "Gage won't pull through this if he doesn't have something to live for.

"Give it to him, and consider us square."