The Divorced Military Queen Awakens (by Sadie Baxter) novel Chapter 339

Fragments streaked behind his eyes: rooftops, summer sun, a small girl shouting the name “Rowan.”

Each call tore at his soul like nails on raw nerve.

“I—I'm all right, Rowan. You don't need to worry, really.”

Yet as the words left her colorless lips, Quinn forced a lopsided, carefree smile, as if pain were an illusion and the streaming blood belonged to someone else.

“The bleeding won't stop. I'm getting you to the hospital—now!” Harlan had knotted his silk tie around her shoulder in a shaky tourniquet, yet crimson still welled through the fabric, running in hot rivulets between his fingers.

With one swift motion, Harlan swept Quinn into his arms. As he turned, squad-car sirens wailed and the first wave of officers skidded to a halt beside the shattered glass.

Marching in with the uniforms was Julius, suit rumpled, eyes wild.

He never expected the sight that punched the breath from his lungs—Harlan clutching the woman he loved, her arm dangling lifeless while scarlet droplets traced a morbid path to the ground.

The once-white blouse clinging to her left shoulder had turned a grim, soaking red.

That stain flooded Julius' vision, the same drowning crimson that had enveloped him the night his mother took her life.

Terror surged through him, cold and electric, in a single vicious heartbeat.

His entire frame began to shake, a tremor he could neither command nor conceal.

“Quinn!” He stumbled toward her, nearly tripping over debris, desperate to reach her before fate claimed another person he cherished.

If she vanished from this world, he wondered, what purpose would remain for him to keep breathing?

Quinn felt the chill spreading, as though ice water replaced her blood; even her eyelids sagged, heavy as lead.

She understood with clinical clarity that the creeping frost was simply hemorrhage.

A moment earlier, she thought she'd heard Julius shouting her name.

The voice had sounded shattered, as though forged from pure terror.

What frightened him so deeply? The possibility I might truly die?

She tried to pry her eyes open, to assure Julius it was only a shoulder wound, nothing more.

Why did hearing her call me by that tender name—seeing her shield me—twist a knife inside my chest?

He fought to master the pain, but the agony radiated from his temples down every nerve.

He pitched forward, both palms clamped to his temples as though he could hold his skull together. A raw, guttural cry tore from Leander's throat—half scream, half plea—echoing through the corridor.

A uniformed officer lunged toward him, worry etched deep between his brows. “Mr. Fane, what's happening? Are you hurt?”

Leander answered only by curling tighter, knuckles whitening as he fought the pounding inside his skull. Waves of pain rolled over him, each one worse than the last, until breathing itself felt like shrapnel.

The bullet never touched me. So why does my chest feel like it's being ripped apart? It shouldn't have been Quinn standing in that line of fire. I should have taken the hit—gladly—if it meant shielding her from a single ounce of pain. Why does it hurt this much? Could I really be her brother—could that be why every throb feels like my own heart betraying me?

The doors to the operating theater swallowed Quinn and the gurney beneath her, stainless-steel panels rolling shut with a final metallic thud.

Harlan and Julius stationed themselves outside, silent sentries beneath the harsh corridor lights.

Harlan stared at the dark crimson smeared across his palms—the warmth had already cooled, yet he could still feel it pulsing, as though Quinn's heartbeat were trapped inside his skin.

His hand trembled.

Years in the army had taught him to keep breathing while blood poured and bullets whined. Wounds, even death, were occupational habits—not horrors. Yet the instant a round punched into Quinn's side, terror, pure and unfiltered, flooded his lungs. He dreaded the possibility that she might crumple and never rise again.