That was . . . odd. I had expected a canopied bed. Or a painted ceiling. Things that normally greeted me upon waking.
Where was I?
I closed my eyes, trying to bring back my memory.
It came in fits and starts.
Shadow world. Ghost. Twenty-first century. D’Angelos. Pain.
Gunfire.
Chiara.
I gasped, fighting to open my eyes again.
Where was Chiara?
I struggled to sit up.
“Shhhhh.” A hand gently pushed me back down. “You need to stay still and rest.”
“Chiara.” My voice a hoarse whisper.
“Yes?”
I paused, groggily lifting my eyelids again.
Her beloved face hovered over me, dark hair piled on top of her head, eyes red-rimmed and puffy. Warm fingers threaded through my right hand.
“Hey,” she whispered. Her free hand touched my face stroking hair off my forehead.
“Chiara,” I breathed her name, leaning into her touch.
After so long, human contact felt . . . incredible.
She cupped my cheek and kissed my forehead, her lips soft against my skin. I nuzzled into her hand, trying to get closer to her.
I washere. Corporeal and solid. I felt pain, but it wasn’t the searing, burning agony of pushing myself fully into this world. The pain was more of a sharp ache localized to my ribs and lungs. How could this be?
“What happened? I remember being shot.” I pulled back, bringing her back into focus. “Wait.Youshot me.”
Chiara’s dark eyes instantly filled. “I d-did shoot you. I-I am so sorry, Jack.” She sniffled and then muttered, “How I haven’t dehydrated myself yet, I don’t know,” while reaching for a tissue.
I lifted my head, looking down at myself. My wet, clinging Regency clothing was gone. Instead, a sheet rested on my lower half while my bare chest was covered with bandages, tubes, wires and gauze. An IV was taped to the back of my left hand.
“Tell me what happened.”
I listened as Chiara recounted the entire scenario, including the bullet still lodged in my chest. She swiped at her damp cheeks as she talked. But she touched me at every chance—my arm, my face—our fingers laced together. She fetched a drink of water for me, holding a bent straw near my lips.
“I can’t believe I’m still here,” I whispered as she set the water aside.
“Me either. How bad is the pain?”
“I feel like I’ve been shot.” A small grin. “Gaping chest wound.”
Chiara gasped and instantly dissolved into tears. Zero to hot sobbing mess in less than three seconds.
“Too soon?” I asked, trying not to smile and failing miserably.
