Gillian's eyes fluttered open at the soft burning of the antiseptic on her cheek, and she saw an EMT leaning toward her with a reassuring smile.

"How are you feeling, ma'am?"

The first words coming from a stranger calling her ma'am made her frown. She sat up, trying to push the man aside and look around.

Ron came to her side. "Hey, Reg. Ready to quit the whiskey?"

She tried to speak but her mouth felt like wet paper.

Ron crouched before her and patted her hand. "Easy there, ginger, you're still on benzo."

Gillian saw the troopers coming and going behind him and frowned deeper.

Ron's smile was warmer. "Your friend Brockner found the girls. Two, both alive. Medics are taking care of them as the troopers work on cutting them free from their iron shackles, 'cause looks like Bailey locked them up and threw away the key."

She nodded with a deep breath. "Al?" she managed to utter.

"She's sleeping her own dose of benzo in her car. Russ is looking after her. Don't worry, she didn't get even a scratch."

She nodded again, her body like a sack of rocks. She could sleep for a whole week. But the stupid EMT tried to resume tending to her bruised face. She shot a death glare at him.

Ron smiled at the man. "I'll do it."

Brock came from the hall right in time to see Gillian about to smack the antiseptic out of Ron's hand. He scowled and strode across the room. "Here," he snarled.

Ron swallowed a scoff as he put the cotton and the antiseptic in his hands.

Brock glared down at Gillian, who tried to look up at him.

"They need a hand downstairs," he said to Ron and the paramedic, and waited for them to head to the corridor. Then he bent a knee before Gillian and put to clean her cheek. Bailey wore a ring, and it had cut her cheekbone. She was lucky it didn't need stitches.

She pursed her face at the burn. "You're abusing your authority," she mumbled and set her jaw, because the damn thing burned more and more.

"Don't play spoiled child on me," he growled, and snorted under his breath. He couldn't even begin to express how mad he was at her, and decided that if she was in shape to complain, she was also in shape for a scold. "What you did was completely reckless and unprofessional." He kept his eyes on the cut in her cheek and his voice down, so the men coming in and out wouldn't notice he was speaking. "What if you couldn't move out of the way in time? That shot could've ended up in your head."

"Fred wouldn't have missed," she managed to reply.

"Of course he could've. Because he cares about you."

He snatched more clean cotton, wetted it in the antiseptic and pressed it softly against her lip, split by Bailey's punch. She narrowed her eyes, her glare focused on him like a laser.

He raised one eyebrow—you were saying? Then scowled again. "It was an unfair burden you put on your sniper, gambling your life like that. You're lucky to be alive."

She hated his guts, already planning how to sneak into his room and choke him in his sleep—some other night, because right then she couldn't even move a finger. Then she registered the honest concern in his voice. And the way he nursed and scolded her at the same time was— Jeez, it was oddly sweet. Stupid bitter man, caring like that.

He looked away to grab more cotton, and when he faced her again to clean the blood from her nose, he found the little smile trying to purse her swollen lips. What was wrong with this woman? "You think this is funny?" he asked, more and more mad at her by the minute.

She shook her head slightly and held his glare for a moment. She was tempted to rest her hand on his cheek—were she able to move it, of course—to tell him it was alright, she was fine.

At her silence, Brock resumed cleaning her bruised nose. It was a miracle Bailey hadn't broken it. Then he saw her close her eyes, relaxing in his care, and for some weird reason it defused him in a heartbeat. Especially when she muttered, "Thank you," right before giving in to the benzo and falling asleep.