“Who are you texting?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady, casual.
She doesn’t even look up. “Bridger.”
It hits like a nail to the chest.
Because if she’s talking to Bridger, and Bridger’s answering…
Then Damian’s not with him.
And if he’s not with Bridger…
Where the hellishe?
My throat closes. I look back down at my screen.
Still just delivered. Still no read.
I guess he’s really gone.
Chapter Sixteen
MARLOWE
The late afternoon sun slants low in the sky, casting long golden streaks across the hospital room. It filters through the blinds, soft and warm, but it only makes the stillness worse. The quiet presses in on me, too calm, too sterile. My heart kicks up, restless and tight.
How bad is the bakery? My apartment? The questions pile up, one after another, each one heavier than the last. Is everything gone? Is there anything left?
The nurses said they were going to start the discharge paperwork soon, told us to rest while they got things ready. That was hours ago. No one ever came back. No updates. No answers. Just this awful waiting.
I can’t take it anymore.
My hand throbs where the IV needle sits, taped down like I’m some fragile thing. I stare at it for a second, then yank it free. Pain flares bright and sharp as the line snaps out, leaving a sting behind. Blood beads up and I press down on it, teeth clenched, breath catching in my throat.
The oxygen tubes are next. I peel them off, the plastic tugging against raw skin beneath my nose. The air suddenly feels heavier, more real.
I swing my legs off the bed. My bare feet touch the cold floor and it’s pure ice, sudden, bracing, and real. My body aches, my lungs burn, and my heart is still a mess, but I can’t lie here another second.
I glance across the room.
"Neve,” I say, my voice rasping like gravel, “let’s get the fuck out of here.”
She blinks at me from her bed, a tangled mess of hospital blankets and soot smudges. Then she grins. “I’m right behind you.”
I look down. Shit. We’re still in hospital gowns. Thin, stiff fabric that barely covers anything and does nothing against the cold air licking at our skin. “Where the hell are our clothes?” I whisper.
Neve stumbles toward the small closet near the bathroom, yanks it open, and pulls out a plastic bag. It crinkles loudly in the quiet. Inside are our clothes, wrinkled and smoky. The scent hits instantly—fire, ash, and fear soaked into every thread. I recognize my sleep shirt and my barely-there shorts.
“This is what we wore to bed,” Neve mutters, her nose scrunching. “It smells like a firefighter’s armpit.”
I grab my things, shoving them on as quickly as my sore limbs allow. The shirt sticks to my skin and the shorts are stiff and singed. But I don’t care. I need out.
I slip into the hallway, quiet as I can manage on aching feet and adrenaline. The nurses’ station is around the corner, humming with voices. I drop low and crawl under the windows, the linoleum cold against my palms. Neve follows right behind me. We reach the elevators and I look over my shoulder at Neve.
“Those shorts are really short. If I wasn’t traumatized before, I definitely am now,” Neve whispers.
I glance back at her and instantly regret it. Her shorts are barely hanging on, and she’s tied her hospital gown in a knot ather waist, but it’s still gaping open in front from the way she’s crawling. I get a full view down her chest—boobs, nipples, and what looks suspiciously like a lollipop tattoo.
“Oh yeah,” I hiss. “And your tits are out.” I cough out a laugh that tastes like smoke. “We’re Girls Gone Wild: ICU Edition.”
