His ribs ached, but there was no sharp pain.
His broken left leg was splinted and resting in a bone box.
He opened his eyes.
He tried to lift his head to look around the room, but even that wee movement set everything to spinning.
He swallowed, fighting the nausea.
He couldn’t move without help.
What was he to do now? Had he heard someone moving around?
And, if not, how was he to summon anyone?
He had never felt so helpless. Even in those dark days following Ian’s death—when grief and guilt had threatened to drag him into a deep ocean of regret and melancholy—he had at least been able to do . . .something.
But now . . .
Alex gritted his teeth, swallowing again. This time he tasted frustration and a wee bit of panic.
The room was dark. But here and there, he could see wisps of daylight drifting through the shutters and drawn curtains.
But as it was, the bedchamber reminded him of a dragon’s lair, glimmering firelight and dark gold-rimmed shadows—
No.
Wait.
He blinked and sucked in another deep breath.
Dragons.
He remembered something about . . . dragons and a golden-haired princess . . . a woman so beautiful it caused a pang in his chest . . .
He closed his eyes once more.
Damn laudanum.
He hated it.
He hated the feeling of his head stuffed with wool.
He hated the vague sense that he had said and done something ill-advised.
He hated the loss of control.
His chest constricted, frustration and panic increasing.
Once more, he forced himself to breathe in deep, filling the bottom of his lungs, then the middle, then the top, then out his mouth in a heavy rush.
He blinked.
Dragon?
Princess?
Beautiful?
