And then…
The world goes black.
Ugh,I hate alarm clocks.
The constant beeping issoannoying. I need to turn it off and go back to sleep, but I can’t seem to get my limbs to move to do it.
But then I notice the smell.
My nose wrinkles with the scent of antiseptic and weirdly a hint of old cooked carrots.
Hospital.
The word floats through the fog of sleep, ripping me straight out of unconsciousness.
My eyelids try to open, but it feels like they weigh a thousand pounds. When I do eventually get them to crack open, the light is blinding. I slam them shut again, breathing through the feeling of an ice pick hammering at my brain.
Eventually I try again, blinking until the room comes into focus. It helps that someone seems to have turned the lights down so it’s less stabby in my brain.
Trying to move forces another groan from my throat. Everything hurts. My head feels like it’s been split open with an axe. My chest aches with every breath.
"Blair."
The voice comes from the left. It’s low and rough and achingly familiar.
Turning my head takes every bit of strength I’ve got and my whole body trembles with the effort.
Gabriel sits in a chair beside the bed gripping one of my hands in his. How did I not feel that until now?
He looks... wrecked.
His suit is wrinkled. Tie gone. Hair a mess, like his hands have been running through it for hours. But his eyes are the scary part.
They’re wild and terrified andburning.
I’ve never seen Gabriel Hollis afraid of anything. It didn't seem possible. But right now, looking at me, he looks like a man who just watched his world crumble at his feet while he couldn’t do anything to stop it.
His grip tightens until it’s almost painful, but I’d never ask him to let go.
"Gabriel?" My voice sounds horrible as his name croaks out. My throat’s dry and rough like sandpaper.
"I'm here," he says, leaning forward. He brings my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles. His stubble is rough as his lips tremble against my skin. "I'm right here, baby."
"What... what happened?"
"Ryder," he says. The name comes out as a snarl. "He ran you off the road."
That’s when the memory crashes back in. The black BMW. The unhinged look on Ryder’s face. The screech of metal.
A shudder racks my body. "He wanted to kill me."
"But he didn’t," Gabriel says darkly. "And he’ll never get close enough to try again."
"How long have I been out?"
"About twelve hours," he says. "You have a concussion. Some bruised ribs. A lot of cuts and bruises."
"How did you get in here?" I ask, brain still sluggish. "Don’t they only let family in?”
