I wasn’t so rotten that I deserved to die; wasn’t so evil to merit a one-way ticket to hell.
I’m not going to waste it.
I would use this new life to fix all my wrongs and ensure I deserved the luck I’d been given.
“H—how l—long?”
Doctor Louille ran a hand over his moustache. “You were in surgery for three hours and asleep for three days in intensive care. Your vitals were finally strong enough to wean you off the sedative and let nature take its course.”
Three days?
Three fucking days!
Shit, what about Nila?
My heart clanged out of control. An exorbitant amount of adrenaline swamped me. Hurling myself upward, I lurched for the edge of the bed. Pain be damned. Motherfucking bullet wound be damned.
Three days!
“I—I have to g—go.”
Louille slammed his hands on my shoulders, pushing me back against the mattress. “What the hell are you doing? I just told you you were lucky. You trying to ruin that luck?”
I struggled, seeing a clock ticking closer to Nila’s death everywhere I looked.
Nila!
Three days!
What had they done to her in that time?
“Let—let me g—go!”
“No chance in hell, buddy. You’re my patient. You’ll follow my rules.” Louille’s fingers dug into my biceps, holding me in place. “Calm down or I’ll restrain you. You want that?”
I froze, breath wheezing in and out. My stomach gnashed with agonising pain.
Three days...
My energy disappeared. A wash of sickness almost made me vomit.Oh, fuck.The room turned upside down.
Louille sympathised, letting me go. “The nausea will pass. It’s the morphine. Just lie still and you’ll be okay.”
All I could think about was Nila and the fact I’d abandoned her.
Fuck!
“Molly, perhaps increase Mr. Ambrose’s dose and arrange a sedative.”
“No!” I’d already lost so much time. No way in hell would I lose anymore. I needed every minute awake to heal and run back to my woman.
My eyes fell on a girl in the background. A nurse with blonde hair in a bun and a clipboard in her hand. Her emotions were shuttered, barely registering on my condition. Either she guarded herself well or the nausea kept my sensitivity to a minimum.
Forcing myself to remain sane—at least until the doctor left so I could plan my escape—I asked, “H—how long will I h—have to s—stay here?”
“Why? You got some skiing trip to attend in Switzerland?” Doctor Louille laughed. When he noticed I was dead serious, he cleared his throat. “I estimate three weeks to be fully fixed. Two weeks for the wound to heal and another week for the internal bruising to recede. Twenty-one days, Mr. Ambrose, then I’ll sign the discharge papers and send you on your merry way.”
Three weeks?
