Chapter Four

It didn't take long for Whiskey and I to get to Yekaterinburg, but it felt like forever to me. Maybe because I had a possible fracture in my ankle, and it hurts like a bitch. I'm not sure. All I know is two things.

One, that I was fucked if I dare to wait to get this ankle fixed up, and

Two, that Whiskey and I were finally seeing each other in a new light.

Once we arrived at the base, both of us had to come up with a genius plan to get inside. What that plan was, I didn't know. Mainly because I wasn't familiar with this base and its inner workings, nor was I familiar with any tactics that would get us successfully snuck inside. Whiskey, however, was excellent in that field. He knew almost every trick in the book, which worked to our advantage. And it was to Balor's disadvantage.

"So how do we get in?" I questioned.

Whiskey pondered for about a minute, stroking his jawline with his hand. "We can either hop in shipping containers and be stowaways until we get inside, or we can sneak into the back of one of these trucks and attack them as we go in."

"I think the shipping containers are a good idea. Less of a risk for us."

While the soldiers' attention was diverted, Whiskey and I managed to hop into an open crate and shut the lid on top of us. None of the soldiers found out about us, which was good. Our plan was going smoothly so far.

In the tiny and dark place, I soon became claustrophobic. It didn't help that I could barely see Whiskey, so panic set in. It was so cramped inside that crate that Whiskey and I could feel each other's hot breaths. We were practically playing a much tinier, much crazier version of Twister in that crate because we could barely move. We were practically sitting as close as we could, sometimes even resting our legs and arms on top of each other. Our faces were inches away from one another. One sudden jerk, and our lips could accidentally—but, in our case, deliberately—lock. I wouldn't complain if it happened, but I doubt it'd actually happen the way I'd think.

"As soon as this thing gets dropped off, we jump out with our weapons drawn, just in case they're right there waiting for us," Whiskey whispered.

"You sure my glocks are gonna be powerful enough?"

"Of course they'll be enough. We just need weapons that'll scare 'em," he whispered back.

The crate jolted around for a bit before Whiskey and I heard some commotion outside of the crate. It was soldiers carrying said container to a certain place in the agency.

"This bitch is heavy," one of them said in a thick Russian accent.

"Don't be such a pussy, Karamazov," the other argued back. "It ain't much heavier than what we usually deal with."

Whiskey and I kept our mouths shut, making damn sure that we didn't make any sudden noise that might tip the enemies off. One syllable that slipped from our tongues, and we were suddenly on a long, winding path toward "Fuckedville". Luckily, we were safe after the enemies set us down in the base and walked away. Slowly and cautiously, Whiskey and I lifted the lid to the container and slowly rose up, our weapons drawn and loaded. I had both glocks in my hand, while Whiskey had one hand on his pistol and another on his whip.

"Boy, was that a tight pinch," I remarked.

"Trust me, sugar. That was nothin'. I've been in much tighter places than this," Whiskey commented. "Figuratively and literally."

Though I couldn't believe Whiskey when he said that, I had bigger things to worry about. Getting more information about this antidote and what it does. How does it hurt people? Well, hopefully, I can get that answer relatively soon before more people die at the hands of Satan himself. And by Satan, I mean…Balor.

I mean it literally when Balor is known as "Satan". In the Hellhound Corps, a division of the bigger and powerful Rings of Hellfire empire, everyone is named after a different name associated with Hell. The name of Satan went to Balor because he was big, all-powerful, and maliciously ruthless and homicidal. Some of his henchmen were named after hellhounds and their name variations, and the more higher-up associates had the privilege of getting the nicknames that were considered variants of the "Satan" moniker.

But they had to earn their fixed Satan nicknames.

According to Balor's complex and evil guidelines, it all depended on how many you kill and how loyal you are to him.

The more you kill, the more loyal you are to me. And the more loyal you are to me, the higher in the ranks you climb, Balor's words echoed.

God, those words sent chills down my spine. So much so that it made me shudder. No, Rocky. Don't stray. You must stay focused. You must. Stay. Focused.

Whiskey and I hopped out of the shipping container and ventured off to more unknown territory. Our weapons were still drawn, just in case any enemy soldiers discovered us. Our goal…to get to a file room and find something that remotely said something about this antidote. I was willing to look for anything, really. Anything at all will do.

"Okay, sugar. Let's start rummaging and see what we can find," Whiskey said as soon as we got to the file room.

And I was off with a bang, scouring through the alphabetically organized files with disoriented effort. As soon as I didn't find a file that didn't contain what I wanted, I tossed it. Let's hope that Balor blames the mess on his colleagues and not me. However, my wait was not long. As soon as I found a file that remotely contained the words Oracle, global genocide, large-scale weapons, and antidotes, I kept them, stuffing them in the waistband of my pants until I could reach my backpack.

"Really? The waistband of your pants?" Whiskey commented.

I gave him a glare of disgust. "You try finding a better place when you don't have a backpack on you."

I looked around for an item that would hopefully hold these files easily. "Isn't there like a satchel or somethin' I can stuff this in?"

Whiskey didn't even rummage through the mess for twenty seconds before he found a black satchel made of leather. "How about this black leather one?"

"That'll do," I said, grabbing it from his hand and starting to stuff the retrieved files in.

After I stuffed the last file in the satchel, I heard a series of voices emerge from outside in the hallway. Footsteps came closer to Whiskey and I's location by the minute, which gave me a new sense of panic.

"Someone's coming," I said.

Whiskey started to internally panic as he looked for a secret floor hatch to hide in. "Quick! Get in here."

After he propped the door open, I hopped in, being careful not to fracture my ankle more than it already was. Whiskey then hopped in and shut the door on top of us, making sure that it was tightly shut and nobody saw the hatch door cracked. The door to the file room opened, and Balor and some of his henchmen entered, seeing the huge mess that I mainly created.

"Who did this?" Balor asked angrily in Russian. "Get someone in here to clean this up!"

One of the henchmen went off to fetch a lower-level henchman to clean up the mess. It gave Balor and two of his henchmen to pace the room, ultimately giving me and Whiskey the information we needed about The Oracle. Me and Whiskey watched through the cracks above us in the floor as Balor unknowingly gave away his secrets.

"Is everything prepared for the Masquerade Ball tonight?" he asked.

"It sure is, boss," one of the henchmen responded.

"Good. I don't want any of those Kingsman agents coming after me. This is a huge affair, and if they come and storm the Bastille, then we lose a lot of money and benefactors."

Everything fell silent, and Whiskey and I made sure that we didn't make a sound. Not even a sound of us breathing heavily.

"I wonder what the other one might think of this plan of ours," Balor pondered.

"The other one, sir?"

"Of course," Balor simply said.

I gave Whiskey a confused glance only for a brief time. "The other one? What could he mean by th–"

Whiskey cupped his hand over my mouth and prevented me from speaking any more, while from above, Balor stopped and looked around for the noise that came from my whispers. I hope that he doesn't find Whiskey and myself here in this secret hatch.

"Did you hear that?" he asked his henchmen.

Still keeping his hand over my mouth, Whiskey stayed silent. Dead silent. That way, he and I weren't discovered. This went on for only a few minutes, despite it feeling like forever. After a while, Balor and his men gave up and exited the room, giving me and Whiskey time to get out and escape. Whiskey removed his hand from over top of my mouth and popped open the hatch.

"Is the coast clear?" I asked as Whiskey struggled to get up out of the hatch.

"I can't tell, sugar. It's gonna be a bitch to get out of here," Whiskey responded, trying to jump up and out of the hatch to no avail.

I knelt down and cupped my hands, placing them out as an offer for Whiskey. "Here. I'll give ya a boost."

"You sure?"

"Of course I am. I'll give ya a boost, and then, you can hoist me out," I said confidently.

Whiskey placed his foot into my hands, and I boosted him up. After he escaped out of the hatch, Whiskey turned to me and grabbed my hand. Using everything in his physical power, he hoisted me up to the ground floor. I hobbled toward Whiskey, still dealing with the fractured ankle of mine.

"Are you sure you're okay, sugar? You're hobblin' quite a bit," he said, becoming concerned with my safety.

"Trust me, Whiskey. I'll be fine 'til we get outta the woods here."

As soon as Whiskey and I stepped into the hallway of the facility, an alarm started to blare loudly throughout the building. It definitely threw a wrench into our plan.

"Oh, fuck me!" I screamed.

Whiskey tried to open his mouth, but I managed to catch what he was saying. "Don't even say a word. I know what you're gonna say, and it ain't gonna happen now."

We were frozen with fear as Balor and his men kept getting closer to us. As each second went by, they were closer. I then got a brilliant but stupid idea that I hoped would work. "Hey, Whiskey."

"Yeah?" he asked.

"You know how to operate aircraft?" I asked him.

He shrugged. "I've only ever operated the Silver Pony, but I guess the aircraft here aren't too complicated to figure out."

"More experience than I have," I said to myself, then turning to Whiskey. "Get me an aircraft and get it ready to get us the hell outta here."

"Got it," he said. "What are you going to do?"

I cracked my knuckles and popped my severely broken ankle back into place again. I was preparing for a fight. A fight that I'd definitely win. Thanks, confidence.

"I'm gonna fight 'em off and buy ya some time."

"Rocky, this is no time to be playin' Charlie Horse with these guys. You have a broken fuckin' ankle," Whiskey sternly warned.

I gave him a cocky, crooked smile. "Trust me. I'll catch up. Just get a chopper or somethin' ready for us."

He sighed as he dashed off. "If you say so, sugar."

Whiskey dashed off to the hangar to find an aircraft to hijack, while I stayed in the hallway to fight off Balor and his men. Sure, the pain in my ankle was God awful, but adrenaline had given me enough cocky confidence to fight these terrorists off. One by one, I fought off the henchmen, burying my fists into their skulls and making sure they were knocked unconscious. If not, dead. Taking them down took a lot less time than I thought it would, and it gave me more time to escape and try to meet up with Whiskey again.

As I rounded the corner to get to an exit, I came face-to-face with him. Balor himself. He had short, jet-black hair and a black mustache. Perfect for that presumably black, stone-cold soul of his. But what stood out to me most other than his dabber sense of fashion was his eyes. His brownish-black eyes. They were soulless, cold…I looked at them, and deep down inside Balor, I saw nothing. He was a soulless, cruel, and horrible man. No wonder he dabbles in murder almost every other day. He doesn't feel pain. Rather, he inflicted it, only because he enjoys seeing other people suffer in front of his very own eyes. He was a monster, and I knew it.

We stood only about ten feet away from each other, staring each other down and not moving an inch. I intended on standing my ground against this asshole terrorist, while he probably was thinking the same thing about me. He wasn't going to budge for a rebellious agent like me. He's too powerful and smart to do so.

"Neither of us are budgin', eh?"

"I intend on sneaking in for the kill once you're vulnerable, Agent" Balor sneered evilly.

"I have to warn ya. I'm not that easy to beat down," I said, holding my arms out to my sides and pretty much inviting Balor to come at me. "Come on. Why don't ya give it your best shot, asshole?"

Balor took off the jacket of his tuxedo, then rolled up the sleeves on his black, button-down shirt. After he cracked his knuckles, he lunged at me and tried to grab my throat. I avoided it rather quickly, and the fight was on. We only grappled with each other, so no punches were landed, despite the both of us throwing plenty to count. Every time he tried to go for my throat, I'd grab his wrist and throw it to the side, causing him to flip at least once in the air and falling onto his tailbone. He kept getting up, despite the brutal beatings I gave him. After a long while of battling with him, I ended up kicking him in his knee, even though it hurt my already fractured ankle a lot more.

It did give me time to escape, however.

I wasn't as fast as I usually was, but I managed to keep a ten-second head start ahead of Balor all the way to the hangar. There was Whiskey, who was lowering a whole-ass helicopter to be only a few feet off the ground. I had no time to react as Balor kept getting closer to riding my ass, so I hopped into the chopper and laid on the ground there, catching my breath. Whiskey did the rest by flying the chopper away from the base. Far away to hopefully a safe place.

"You good back there, sugar?" he asked from the cockpit.

"I'm fine," I answered back. "Just had to catch my breath.

I hobbled to the passenger seat in the cockpit, and Whiskey took one glance at me before focusing on the sky ahead.

"Once we land, can you please go get that ankle checked out before you hurt yourself more than you already did?"

"Yeah. It wouldn't hurt to have someone look at it," I said.

At that moment, I had to finally accept the fact that I was hurting. If I didn't get help soon, I'll be fucked. At least it made it all better when an image of Balor's face flashed into my head. He was pissed. A homicidal kind of pissed. He was mad that he didn't get what he wanted: to capture me and Whiskey and kill us. I'm relieved to say that it won't be happening to us.

* * * * * * * * * *

Whiskey landed the chopper at a secret facility in Samara, Russia after a while. After successfully landing the aircraft on the landing pad, he immediately and gently scooped me up into his buff arms, carrying me so that I didn't have to put any more weight on my severely damaged ankle. My heart was pounding hard. So hard that I could feel the heartbeat in my throat. Despite me trying to keep my feelings of Whiskey hidden from the public eye, there's always one anomaly that drags them back up to stay afloat.

"Welcome, Agents. I'm Director Daria Volkova. I'm the head of the Samara facility, a part of several that belong to the Romanov Agency," the woman said.

Whiskey nodded and smiled, having his hands completely compromised because of me. "Nice to meet ya, Director. Sorry about the unexpected welcome from the United States, but it was a bit of an emergency."

"What seems to be the issue?"

"Well, Agent Blackjack here seems to have a fractured ankle, and we want to get it checked out before we get back into action," Whiskey explained.

"It's broken pretty badly. I'm afraid if I try to pop it back into place again, the bone will eventually poke out of the skin," I added.

The director led us inside the facility. "Don't worry. We'll get you a doctor to check you out. Right this way."

Whiskey carried me into the facility, where we were soon led into a medical room that was a lot fancier and bigger than I've ever seen before. Then again, I hadn't been in a hospital or anything remotely close since my youngest brother Shane's birth, so it's been a couple years.

"You doing good, sugar?"

"Surprisingly, I am," I responded, "considering the circumstances and all."

"Considering," Whiskey said.

The doctor then walked in and immediately took notice of me and Whiskey. The only thing that stood out about him was that he was young and had a chiseled jawline similar to Balor's. He had the same jet-black hair and facial hair like Balor, but the doctor had caramel, brown eyes and a nice smile. No doubt that I trusted this doctor more than I did the monster known as Balor Devlin.

"Hi, agents. I'm Doctor Aliev. I'm the head doctor here at this branch of the Romanov Agency," he introduced in a decently thick Russian accent. "You two don't look like you're from around here."

"We're from the United States," Whiskey remarked. "We work for the Statesman."

The doctor glanced up and down at Whiskey and I, allowing his face to light up with joy and relief.

"Ah, the Statesman. We've always had a good relationship with them. They treat us well, we treat them well. It's a mutual alliance in a way."

I shrugged. "Any chance you're in the fight against Balor Devlin?"

"No. Not at all. We're here to remain neutral and keep track of the threat. If he attacks us, then we fight back," the doctor explained. "We're just trying to keep out of this fight as much as possible."

Dr. Aliev looked at the chart on his clipboard and got back to business. "So what can I do for you two? I can't imagine this is just a normal check-up."

"Well, Doc, I definitely have a fractured ankle," I remarked. "It's so bad that I'm afraid if I pop it back into place again, the bone is gonna protrude out of the skin."

"What were you doing when the ankle fractured?"

"We were retreating back to a wood cabin Agent Whiskey and I considered a temporary sanctuary," I explained. "We were trying to find out more about Balor Devlin's weapon, and a second wave of Balor's soldiers found us. Whiskey and I retreated to regroup and come up with a new plan."

"Can you put weight on your ankle at all?" the doctor asked.

"I used to be able to," I explained. "Only a little bit after the initial injury happened."

Whiskey decided to chime in. "We were inside the cabin catching our breaths, and I asked her if she could put weight on it. She stood up and tried to, but she almost immediately collapsed."

"So we're looking at a possibly severe ankle break here," Dr. Aliev concluded, writing down some notes. "We'll get some x-rays on your ankle and see how severe of a break this is and how long you'll need to be out of action."

"I hope it ain't long," I chirped.

I got wheeled off to get the x-ray on my ankle, and Whiskey was right there at my side. I was more than okay with it. He gave me a sense of trust and security, making sure I was protected and safe at all times. He didn't have to go out of his way to protect me. He did it entirely out of voluntary obligation, which I appreciate.

"Alright, Agent. I just need you to stay still while the x-ray gets a picture of your ankle," Dr. Aliev said, fixing the x-ray's position to be more toward my ankle.

I tried to relax and stay still, but I guess the nerves got the best of me. Luckily, Whiskey noticed my nervousness and grabbed my hand, stroking it with the pad of his thumb. He was gentle with it, which made me fall for him all over again.

That's the thing with Whiskey. Just when I've already fallen for him, he gives me another good reason to fall in love all over again. He makes damn sure that you're constantly swooning over him…and I was no exception.

"Alright. Great job, Agent. We'll get the x-ray developed and let you know of the results relatively soon hopefully," the doctor said.

"Thank you, Doc," I said, as the doctor exited the room after wheeling me back to where I was staying.

The doctor leaving was actually good for Whiskey and I. It gave us time to talk about the next phase of this mission. This broken ankle of mine is only a minor setback, and we needed something new just in case everything goes off the rails from here.

"What now?" I questioned.

"We're in a waitin' game, sugar," Whiskey answered, sighing at the unfortunate circumstances that took place. "It's hard to tell how long we have to wait before we can go back out into the field."

"I hope it isn't too long. I'd feel guilty if I'm restricted to bedrest, while you're off fightin' against an asshole like Balor."

Whiskey tightened his grasp on my hand, letting me know that he was serious. "Rocky, I'd much rather have you stay out of action and stay safe than to have you go out there and get even more hurt than you already are. It pains me to see you hurt. Every time you're broken down, I get struck down to your level. I don't want to be so broken that even you can't repair me back to normal."

He paused for a moment to gather his trembling breath. "That's why I can't see you gettin' hurt. I meant what I said back there when I said that I see my high school sweetheart in you. Every time—every time I look at you, I see her. And I can't go through that pain again when I lose you. That's why I'm keepin' you safe, sugar. I don't want to lose you. I'd never forgive myself if you die under my watchful eye. I could never live with that, just like I can't live without you being in my life."

"You're sayin' that I'm important to you?"

"Of course you are," he said. "Even though we're not exactly lovers according to the public eye, I still consider you an essential part in my life. You're the only person that's made me smile and genuinely happy ever since my sweetheart died. That's sayin' somethin'. There aren't many people in this world that make me as happy as you do."

I smiled, but only smiled enough to not show my teeth. I ran my tongue along the inside of my mouth, smirking while doing so. I kept this feeling of desire for Whiskey bottled up and didn't let it erupt out of me.

"How long have you been waitin' to say that?" I asked as I bit the inside of my cheek.

Whiskey kept staring deep into my eyes, seeing straight through my fragile soul. "Too damn long."

After a bit, the doctor walked back in, pinning the pictures from the x-ray up on a light-up mirror. Now, the moment of truth was about to arrive. Was it bad? Was it good? A lot of questions ran through my head faster than a cheetah on crack, and it made me internally panic.

"Okay, Agent. Here's what we got," Dr. Aliev started, pointing at different parts of my ankle. "Here is your tibia, and here is your fibula. Over here is where our issue is. We're looking at a lateral malleolus fracture here, which is a fracture in the bone outside of the ankle joint. In your case, this is one of the less severe ones. Although, these types of injuries can put you out for a long time."

"How long, Doc? Give it to me straight. Don't sugarcoat anythin' for me," I said.

The doctor took a look at his charts, then back to me and Whiskey. "Judging by the break and the risk of any infection spreading, I'd say about six weeks at least."

I sat up quickly, which caused Whiskey to let go of my hand. My blood was coursing madly through my body, which typically happens either when I get an adrenaline rush or I'm about to go off on a crazy tangent.

"You gotta be shittin' me, Doc. Six weeks!?" I exclaimed. "We don't have six weeks!"

Whiskey tried—and failed—to calm me down. "Rocky, calm down. It's just—"

"Don't start with me. I'm about to go on a tangent," I interrupted.

I gathered my breath and started to give my version of a good explanation. I had to be out in the field and help Whiskey take down Balor. "I've worked too damn hard to get to this point. If I'm not out there helping Whiskey crack some ass, Balor's gonna have a heyday with all these innocent people. He'll kill anyone and anything in his path, which means he gets closer to turning Earth into a black, smokin' ball of ash. Only then will he have accomplished his convoluted, downright tyrannical goal of global genocide. So if I'm not out there almost immediately with Whiskey here, you and the entire rest of the world are fucked."

The doctor's face turned into one of shock, mainly because he didn't expect that reaction to come out of me. He still wanted to help me, even though it was against his better judgment to let me wander around free without following the correct recovery guidelines.

"I can give you some painkillers and a splint after we're done with the initial correction of the bone," he said.

"Well, how are we gonna do that? I don't want to pop it back into place again."

"You won't have to," the doctor said. "This is going to require immediate surgery. After that, I'll give you painkillers and an ankle splint so you and Agent Whiskey will be on your way."

I was gobsmacked. Surgery? It has to be that bad in order for me to get surgery. Then again, I need it desperately. If I don't have it, then I put my body at risk for infection, and that would be a whole 'nother problem on top of everything.

"Surgery? What kind of surgery?"

"We'll go in, put some pins in your ankle to straighten out the bone and make sure it's aligned with the rest of your body again. Then, after you wake up, I'll put on a stabilizing ankle splint and prescribe you some painkillers," Dr. Aliev explained. "That's the best thing I can do for you, even though it's against my normal medical judgment."

"Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate it," I said. "Really, I do."

"It's the least I can do for you two."

The doctor then left the room to prepare the operating room for surgery. Almost immediately, I started to panic. So bad that it felt like I was having a panic attack, despite me not knowing for sure if I have a panic attack disorder. My heart once again was pounding rapidly, I was shaking, and my throat tightened up, making me short of breath and hard to breathe. Beads of sweat formed rapidly on my forehead, and I had to constantly wipe them off with my sleeve. Whiskey, who was still right there at my bedside, noticed this and immediately showed his concern.

"You okay, sugar? You're sweatin' like a whore in church," he said.

I tried to speak, but the words kept getting caught up in my tightening throat. "I—I can't—I can't breathe, Whiskey. I'm panicking over this surgery, and I can't fuckin' breathe."

There goes Whiskey again with the firm grasp of my hand. Again, he was serious. "Look at me, sugar. Look. At. Me."

He placed his thumb and index finger under my chin and lifted my face up so I could look at him dead straight through his eyes. The familiar feeling of horniness and desire for Whiskey rose through my body again, but my panic attack symptoms destroyed them almost immediately. I was definitely thirsty for him. At least that's what one part of me said. The other part was panicking wildly over surgery. Something I've never undergone in my life.

"Deep breaths, Rocky. Deep breaths, like these," he said, inhaling and exhaling deeply and slowly.

I followed suit, inhaling and exhaling deeply and slowly. By the minute, my heart rate went back down to normal, and I was no longer sweating profusely. Whiskey calmed me down and made me secure once again. I was finally safe in my own skin again, thanks to him. I'm not sure if he had any experience in dealing with panic attacks, but he helped me through this apparent one of mine. That's for sure.

"That's it," he said. "That's it, sugar."

As I let out a sharp exhale from my breath, I finally calmed down enough to have my nerves stagnant enough to clearly think and process what was about to come.

"Sorry about that, Whiskey. I just never had to undergo surgery before," I finally said.

"Don't you ever be sorry for somethin' like that," he responded. "It's somethin' you've never experienced before. You have every right to be scared and panic over it. But no matter what happens, sugar, I'll be here. I'll be here to settle your nerves and make sure you're comfortable. No matter what goes on, sugar, I'll be here. And I don't ever intend on leavin'."

I gave Whiskey a crooked smile, being satisfied with his response to my apology. I was more than satisfied, as a matter-of-fact. Then again, anything Whiskey does makes me more than satisfied. In fact, it makes me more attracted to him than ever before.

"You're just trying to say anything that makes me fall in love with ya."

Whiskey raised one of his eyebrows, which—in turn—caused one corner of his mouth to point up as well. It was crooked. That damn crooked smile that makes my insides flutter.

"Of course I am. Why? Got a problem with that?"

I scoffed. "Why would I have a problem with that? I'm in love with ya, Whiskey, and that ain't ever gonna change."

Whiskey gave me a confused glance, prompting me to elaborate on what I just said:

"I meant what I said back there in the woods. I do love you, Whiskey, and I'll always love ya. I first met you in person, and my world—my world turned on its head. And I mean that in the best way possible. I thought it was a mistake when I fell in love with you, but now, I realize that it was the best thing that could've happened to me. You—you, Whiskey—were the best accident that could've ever entered my life."

He was speechless. The words that he tried to say didn't escape off his tongue. Did I finally fluster the cowboy? Did I finally rope him into being madly in love with me? Despite me seemingly knowing everything about Whiskey, the fact on whether or not I finally roped him under my spell eluded me constantly.

"And I meant it when I aggressively kissed ya back there," he responded.

After he said that, Dr. Aliev walked back into the room, telling me that it was time. "Alright, Agent. It's time."

Whiskey and I exchanged a glance, and I gave a nod to the doctor to tell him that I was ready to be wheeled into the operating room. As Whiskey kept a firm hold of my hand while I was getting wheeled in, the doctor took notice of him and tried to follow typical protocol.

"It's okay. He can stay with me up until the operating room," I said, assuring the doctor that it was okay for Whiskey to be at my bedside.

I continued to be wheeled toward the operating room, while Whiskey remained latched onto my hand, not wanting to let go. The doctor stopped me right before the doors to the operating room, and he turned to me with serious yet sympathetic eyes.

"Are you ready, Agent?"

I gave Whiskey a glance—a glance that was highlighted by terrified and tearful eyes—right away. Not lifting his gaze off me, Whiskey brought my hand close to him, kissing it softly. I could feel his hot breath blow onto the skin of my hand, which made me think that he was tempted to do it again. He did not want to let go of me because, as I could assume from earlier conversations, he didn't want to go through the heartbreak of losing the love of his life again. For him, letting go of me was like letting go of my memory for what could be the first and last time. He never wanted to forget me, and I don't believe he has any intention of doing so. Not now. Not ever.

"Yeah. Let's get this done and over with, Doc," I nodded.

Before I was wheeled in, Whiskey leaned in close to me and gave me a soft, drawn-out kiss at the top of my head. I exhaled a shaky breath, knowing that once I was wheeled in there, I might not come back out. But I decided to bury that fear and keep optimism in the palm of my hand…because I knew Whiskey would want me to.

"I love you more than anything, Whiskey. I love you too damn much to ever forget you," I said through tearful eyes, "and I wanted you to know that just in case I don't come back out."

Whiskey started to tear up as well, but he wasn't crying like I was. He was a lot stronger than I was on an emotional level. "Don't say shit like that, sugar. You're a tough, headstrong individual with a bright light that shines everywhere you go…and I just happened to be one of those people who got drawn closer to that light. I know you're gonna make it out of there alive. I just know it. And when you come back out, I'll be waitin'. I'll be waitin' right here for you."

I finally got wheeled into the operating room, as Whiskey and I's hands slowly drifted apart. As his hand left mine, I could still feel his touch on my fingertips, and it comforted me a little to know that Whiskey's spirit would be there for me while I have surgery.

"I love you!" Whiskey shouted to me just before the doors shut.

Almost immediately after I got wheeled in and set underneath that burning white light, the doctor gently plunged the syringe into the outside of my shoulder and started to count down from one-hundred. Every time the number got smaller, I'd slowly drift off from reality. Everything around me slowly went black, as I closed my eyes and fell into a deep, deep sleep. However, the memory of Whiskey still danced around in my head, making me drift into that sleep happier than ever…

* * * * * * * * * *

I was still groggy by the time I woke up from the anesthesia, which meant that I could hear about half the words the doctor said to Whiskey after the surgery ended. Still, I kept my eyes shut because I was still tired as fuck and tried to sleep it off, but that would take a while for me to do.

"So how is she, Doc?" Whiskey asked.

"The surgery went very well," Dr. Aliev responded hopefully, "and I have great reason to believe that she'll make a full recovery relatively soon."

"So she's alive?"

"Of course. She's in her room, sleeping off the anesthesia as we speak," the doctor answered. "I always had hope that she'd survive. Judging by her personality, she's a tough old girl."

"She sure is," Whiskey said, then thinking about me. "So can I see her?"

The doctor started to lead Whiskey back to the room. "Of course."

Meanwhile, I laid in the room, slowly waking up and slipping back into the real world. Everything was fuzzy, as I looked around the room to find something that would bring me comfort. After a while, I looked slightly to my left to find Whiskey, who was sitting there holding onto my hand tighter than ever, his coarse skin gracing my gentle hand.

"Whiskey?" I softly whimpered.

He lifted his head suddenly and saw me giving him the same crooked smile that he always gives me. His gorgeous, glistening brown eyes locked with mine, and everything seemed right in that moment.

"Hey, sugar," he smirked. "How ya doin'?"

I chuckled. "Doin' as good as a limp dick in a whorehouse."

"There she is," he said, letting out a soft chuckle. "My girl's back."

I gave him a confused look. He never called me "his girl" in all the time we've been stuck together. He always called me sugar, Rocky, or Blackjack. So this might just show that we're moving forward with this relationship, which is what the hopeless romantic part of me always wanted.

"I never left," I simply said with confidence.

I took Whiskey's hand and kissed it gently, just like he did before I went under the knife. Everything was right at this moment, with me and Whiskey finally united after my surgery. The only other person I loved—other than those in my immediate family—was at my side, which is what I wanted. What I dreamed of. There was only one thing that comforted me during this painful, long recovery of mine. And that was me finding solace in the one person I trusted.

Whiskey.