Jasmine had said she’d do everything in her power to keep her safe, but as much as I trusted and loved my sister, I knew what my brother and father were capable of.
She’s not safe there.
I have to get her out.
I also knew what Bonnie was capable of and that scared me to fucking death.
Sighing heavily in the stagnant room, I gritted my teeth and pushed upright. I was sick of lying horizontally. I was pissed at being told what I could and couldn’t do. And I’d had enough of trading one imprisonment for another.
Louille had threatened me on a daily basis with restraining me. Especially, when he’d found me on the floor the day after my surgery, bleeding from launching myself out of bed, believing I was cured enough to fight.
I was stupid to try—but I had to. I had no choice.
I couldn’t just lie there. That wasn’t an option. Nila needed me. And I wouldn’t let her down again.
It’s time to do things my fucking way. Otherwise, it will be too late.
The first three days, Louille had been a damn Nazi on my attempts to walk. I got that he was responsible for my welfare. That he’d done his job and patched me up to ensure I lived another day. But what he didn’t get was I didn’t want to live another fucking day if Nila wasn’t there with me.
It’s my responsibility, goddammit.
I wouldn’t fail her. Ever again.
Yesterday, I’d won one battle. I positively despised my demotion to a lump of decomposing meat, lying in bed with drains in my side and a catheter in my fucking cock.
I’d shown just how healthy I was with a shouting match, ensuring the removal of the catheter and the drains. Time was an enemy but also a friend. Every tick left Nila out of my protection, but every tock healed me so I could finally set right my wrongs.
I just wished I had a magical device that paused time at Hawksridge and sped up my existence so I could be strong once again.
Wait for me, Nila.
Stay alive for me, Nila.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I looked at the sterilized linoleum floor. At least I felt more like a man rather than a healing vegetable. The past few days had been awful, but I was getting better—no matter how weak I was.
I hated being so fucking feeble. Too feeble to be of any use.
But no matter my frustration, I couldn’t battle through the tiredness or soreness of my body knitting back together. It healed as fast as it could. I just had to learn patience.
I snorted. Yeah, right. Patience when my deranged family has my woman. Like that would ever fucking happen.
You have no choice.
If only I could heal faster.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed off the bed. My bare feet slapped against cool flooring. The room swam, reminding me all too much of Nila and her imbalance. We’re perfect for each other. Both slightly broken. Both slightly flawed. But perfectly whole once we let our hearts become one.
My toes dug into the smooth linoleum, keeping me upright. The back of my hand twinged as the drip line tugged. I groaned, wiping away sweat already beading on my brow.
I’d learned the hard way when I first attempted a bathroom visit that I had to roll the contraption feeding my drip with me; otherwise, the needle in my hand jerked me back.
That’d hurt. But not nearly as much as my heart did whenever I thought of Kes still holding onto this world. He hadn’t died; no matter how adamant Doctor Louille had been that he might never wake up.
Don’t think about him.
I had too much to worry about. Being in a high-traffic public place meant my emotions were scrubbed raw. Luckily, I had a private room, but it didn’t stop emotions from soaking through the walls.
Snippets of grief and misplaced hope trickled under my door from family members visiting loved ones. Horrible pain and the craving for death drifted like scent waves from patients healing from trauma.
I fucking hated hospitals.
I have to leave—if not for Nila’s sake, then my own.
I would be able to heal a lot faster away from people who drained the life right out of me.
Gritting my teeth, I shuffled forward. The large bandage around my middle gave my broken rib some support but agony radiated anyway. Doctor Louille had cut down my painkillers at my request. I needed to know the truth—to monitor my healing and be able to cope with the discomfort on my own terms.
Because three weeks was far too fucking long.
I’m not waiting that long.
The minute I could get to the bathroom without it taking fifteen bloody minutes, I was checking out, and I didn’t care what anyone said.
Every step fed energy to atrophied muscles.
Every shuffle forced my body to revive.
And every stumble ensured I could leave that much sooner.
Eleven minutes.
An improvement from sixteen minutes yesterday.
Not the best achievement to go from bed to bathroom, but I’d whittled off five minutes in just under twenty-four hours. I was healing faster—bolstered by my unrelenting pressure.
Wobbling back toward the despised mattress, I paused in the centre of the room. The thought of getting back into the starched sheets and staring yet again at the powder blue ceiling with no fucking purpose other than to torture myself with images of Nila didn’t inspire me.
I was no good to her yet. I had to be sensible and heal before saving her, but I couldn’t lie there another moment without talking to her. Without telling her how much I loved her, cared for her, missed her, craved her. I needed her. I needed her smile, her laugh, her touch, her body.
I need you, Nila, so fucking much.