“So how the hell—”
“What the Nigel McQueen’s shout cut Chris short. The director appeared at Rowan’s side followed by two police officers. “What the fuck is going on?”hell is going on?”
Before anyone could do or say a thing, two paramedics were shoving the cops and the director aside. Rowan flinched, hissing in pain as they began to investigate her injuries. She glared at them when they tried to placate her with reassuring words. Words she could barely discern over the ringing in her ears. Damn it, why wouldn’t the ringing stop?
Aslin’s low chuckle calmed her irritation, as did his fingers threaded through hers. She flicked him a quick look, biting back a groan at the pain the move caused behind her eyes.
“The pain in your head, Rowan,” one of the paramedics asked, flashing a narrow light in and out of her eyes, “on a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst, one being—”
“Eight,” she answered.
“Are you sure?”
She gave the man a shallow nod, once again suppressing a groan. “I’ve had a ten a time or two.”
Fifteen minutes later, she climbed to her feet.
She had to argue with them, of course. And Chris. No one wanted her to stand up. Nigel, her brother, the paramedics, they all wanted her to stay on her ass.
The paramedics insisted she stay motionless until they fitted a neck brace on her and moved her to the ambulance. Chris insisted she did what they said. Nigel ordered her to do what they said. She ignored them all.
Just as she ignored the pain threatening to engulf her again as she pushed herself off the ground.
Holy shit, she hurt.
She straightened, biting back the tight sob tearing at her throat. She wasn’t going to just lie around all day waiting to feel better. She was—
“Sis.” Chris reached for her, but she shrugged him off. And then stumbled sideways.
Aslin caught her, his expression unreadable. “Okay, you need to go to the hospital.”
She protested. Right up until black swirls of dizziness stole her ability to stand. Strong bands of steel wrapped around her back and beneath her knees, and it was only the distinct scent of Aslin’s body in her breath that told her he’d scooped her up. The rest of her mind didn’t seem to want to register anything but pain.
Pain.
When was the last time she let pain defeat her?
If the answer came, she didn’t remember it. Nor did she remember the trip to the hospital, but apparently there was one. Because that was where she woke up, connected to an intravenous drip, her favourite jeans and cowboy boots no longer covering her body, a hospital gown in their place, the ringing in her ears only marginally softer.
She pushed herself—gingerly—up onto her elbows. “Ouch,” she muttered, a sharp shard of pain sinking into her right side.
“Big girl’s blouse.”
Cocking an eyebrow, she turned toward Aslin’s voice.
He stood next to the door, his shoulders pressed to the wall, one ankle crossed over the other. A dark growth of stubble covered his chin and jaw, making him appear far more dangerous than ever.
Or maybe that was the morphine talking?
Rowan caught her bottom lip, shot the clear plastic tube connected to the pump beside her a quick look—was that morphine?—and then returned her attention to the silent Brit.
He studied her, his sculpted biceps all the more impressive due to the way his arms crossed his broad chest, his faded denim jeans emphasizing the corded strength of his thighs.
Rowan’s belly knotted. Menace oozed from him in waves.
“How do you feel?”
She shifted on the bed and winced.
“That good?”
Before she could answer, a nurse hurried into the room. “How are you feeling, Ms. Hemsworth?” The woman fiddled with the controls, adjusting something on the drip. “Are your ears still ringing?
“A little.”
The woman made a note on the chart she’d placed beside Rowan and then stared hard into her eyes. “Can you tell me your level of pain?”
Rowan frowned, letting her body talk to her for a brief moment. “Maybe a four?”
The nurse made a hmm sound, nodded, made another note and then adjusted something else. “What day is it today?”
“Friday,” Rowan answered.
“Who is the President of the United States?”
“Obama.”
“Are you feeling hungry?”
Rowan turned her frown on Aslin. “How long have I been out of it?”
The corner of his mouth tugged into a small smile. “Forever. I’m going to call you Rip Van Winkle from now on.”
“Three hours, Ms. Hemsworth,” the nurse answered with a glower at Aslin. “But you’ve been asleep for most of it, not unconscious. It’s good to see you awake and lucid. If for no other reason than the bossy mountain here can stop harassing the doctors.”