The ropes around my wrists were tugged, and I cried out. The pain was so intense that I thought I would pass out right there.
“Stay with me,” a calm voice said from behind. It was the same voice that instructed me to keep breathing.
When my arms were free, I sagged forward. The pain splintering through me was too much to bear. And then there were hands at my ankles; I heard the knife against the rope. When I was completely untied, my body fell forward, sliding off the chair and toward the ground.
But he was there.
I slid right into his arms, my body completely boneless.
A low curse slipped from his lips as he yelled for a medic. Yeah, a medic. That seemed like a good idea. I hurt. I hurt all over.
I cried out when he shifted me in his arms, bringing me closer to his chest. I pressed my face against him. He was wet, but his clothes were scratchy against my cheek. I tried to look at him; I opened my eyes and tilted back my head. I caught a flash of dark hair and light eyes, but then my vision faded out, pain took over, and I passed out.
2
The problem with passing out is that upon awakening, you had to face the pain of whatever caused you to pass out in the first place all over again. Okay, so the pain wasn’t as bad as it was before, and I figured that was in large part due to the IV sticking out of the back of my hand. I wish they had a pain pill for that because IVs hurt.
I blinked, trying to focus and look around the room. I was in a private room, which was nice. The walls were sterile white; there was a curtain pushed open around the bed and a TV mounted to the wall. The blankets that covered me to my waist were no nonsense and kind of scratchy. Not at all like my pillows and bedding at home.
Home.
The thought brought up a surge of panic. I looked down at my wrists, which were wrapped in layers of white gauze that wound down around the base of my thumbs and then back up again.
Burned.
I was burned.
Images from what happened assaulted me. The match, the fire, the fear. I shifted, wanting to get away from the memories, and a lock of hair slid onto my cheek. It smelled like smoke.
The memory of almost choking to death on smoke made a sound tear from the back of my throat. The monitor off to my right began to beep, and I looked up, the sound helping a little to bring me back to reality.
I was safe.
There was no fire here.
There was no man standing in the shadows with a match.
The door to my room opened and a nurse bustled in. She smiled when she saw me looking at her. “Ah, you’re awake. I’ll get the doctor.” She pressed a couple buttons on the monitor, and the rapid beeping stopped; then she hurried from the room.
There was a dull ache in my shoulder and my skin felt tight everywhere, like it got wet and I was thrown in the dryer, which caused it to shrink around my body. I glanced down at the bandages around my wrists again and wondered how good the drugs they had me on were. As in, how bad was this going to hurt later when I wasn’t taking as much medicine?
I glanced at the water pitcher next to the bed, wondering if there was any water in it. My throat felt so dry, like I hadn’t had any water in days… How long had I been lying here?
I stretched out my arm, reaching for the pitcher, but I didn’t make it very far because every single muscle in my arm and back groaned in protest. But instead of flopping my arm back down, I sat frozen, staring at the red burn on my right hand. The skin was completely crimson, like I stuck my hand out a window and let it roast an entire day in the hot southern sun.
I got burned in the fire.
My brain seemed to be working extra slow because that was just now becoming clear. The bandages obviously hadn’t been enough of an indicator. And the fact that my wrists were bandaged and my hands were not but were still red… Well, that was very telling. Those burns must be worse.
The door to my room opened again. I glanced up expecting a doctor in a white lab coat, carrying a chart. But it wasn’t a doctor. It wasn’t a kind-faced nurse either.
The door swung slowly shut behind him and his footsteps paused when he saw I was staring at him. As if I could look away. Once again, I felt the familiar feeling of my lungs seizing from lack of oxygen. It was like he was some extreme human vacuum that had the ability to suck every ounce of air out of the room.
“You’re awake.” His voice was oxygen to my breathless body. The minute the calm yet strong words passed his lips, my body automatically inhaled. It’s almost like my body knew him—like it recognized him even though my brain screamed it would never forget a single thing about his incredible face. And his words… Did that mean he hadn’t accidentally stumbled into the wrong room on the way to visit his sick and frail grandmother?