“If you stay here,” I added, “I’ll call my mom and take care of everything. She won’t worry.”
Her eyes narrowed. I could tell she didn’t like either option, but she was running out of fight. She’d have to choose between upsetting my mother or staying with me—and for some reason, I had a feeling she cared more about my mother.
Finally, after a long, tense minute, she let out a sigh laced with defeat.
“Fine,” she muttered. “I’ll stay. But only for a couple of hours. I’ll set an alarm.”
Relief eased some of the stress in my shoulders. Hopefully she would be too tired to leave when that alarm went off, but that would be a problem for later.
Now, all that mattered was that she was safe and taken care of.
I nodded once. “Deal.”
11
Quinn
Someonewastouchingmyhair, gently rousing me from the exhausted sleep I’d let consume me.
Fingers slid slowly through the strands, tracing the curve of my scalp, the motion so steady it almost lulled me back under.
My name followed, a soft murmur in the dark.
I didn’t want to wake up.
Sleep felt heavy and deep and safe—like sinking under warm water, where nothing could reach me. But the voice came again, low and careful, closer this time.
“Quinn…”
The sound of it tugged at me, the familiar voice pulling me toward the surface. My eyelids fluttered but didn’t stay open. My body felt too stiff—a dull ache pulsed in my ribs and throat, but I didn’t want to acknowledge it.
That hand continued combing through my hair. It was so comforting.
When I finally forced my eyes to stay open, I saw him.
Graham sat on the edge of the bed, the lamp casting a muted glow across his face. His eyebrows were drawn tight, but there was a faint smile at the corners of his mouth. He studied me, gaze roaming like he was searching for something important.
I stared at him, disoriented. His presence made sense to me, though my mind didn’t want to remember the reason I was here. It was like the memory stung too much. It was better to leave it alone.
“I have something for the pain, if you want them,” he said quietly.
When I didn’t reply, he held out a hand, two small pills resting in his palm.
“I have some water, too,” he added, nodding to the glass on the nightstand.
My mind was sluggish, and I did nothing but blink down at the medicine.
He lifted a brow. “What?” he asked softly, a glimmer of humor threading through the worry in his voice. “You don’t trust me?”
My throat tightened, the words clawing their way up. “I don’t trust anyone anymore.”
My voice was hoarse and raw. I wasn’t even sure he understood me.
But his expression shifted, the small smile fading. He stilled, hand open and waiting.
I finally reached for the pills and popped them into my mouth. He handed me the glass, and I drank—first a sip, then a gulp, realizing too late how thirsty I was. The water was cool and soothing, and I’d drunk over half the glass when I handed it over.
I settled back into the pillows, pulling the duvet up to my chin. The exhaustion threatened to sweep me back under, but Graham’s weight didn’t move from beside me.
