“You should wake up soon, you know? Before Alice convinces the nurses to tranquilize me into bedrest.”
He doesn’t stir.
I rest my forehead against the back of his hand, tears silently slipping free.
Chapter 27
Nate
Darkness shifts.
It’s not immediate, more like a murky tide pulling away from shore, slow and reluctant. The lights above blur into halos as I blink once, twice—until the fog in my mind starts to thin and shapes around me sharpen.
White walls. The faint hum of machines. A cold stiffness biting at my spine.
I’m awake.
But it doesn’t feel like it.
My throat’s dry as bone, and my limbs—God, they feel like lead. When I try to move, a sharp, stabbing pain rockets through my back. I groan low in my chest, and the sound is enough to stir someone from the shadows of the room.
A man steps in quietly. Tall. Neatly groomed. Composed in a way that makes my instincts bristle. His gaze falls first on the figure curled up beside the bed.
Isabel.
She’s asleep, her cheek pressed against the back of my hand, her lashes still damp like she cried herself there. Something inside me seizes. She looks wrecked. Broken. And I did that.
The man’s lips curve with a small smile. Familiar.
Was he in the photos?
The ones I was sent?
The ones that nearly tore me apart?
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I whisper under my breath, instantly regretting it as pain lances through my side.
The man steps closer, extending a hand I ignore.
“Mr. Weister, it’s great to see you awake,” he says with a practiced calm. “I’m Christian Heine. I’m your surgeon.”
His eyes flick again to Isabel, then back to me. That glance alone makes my blood burn. Too familiar. Too protective.
“Let’s talk quietly and let her rest,” he adds. “I don’t remember seeing her sleep in days. How are you feeling?”
I scowl. Surgeon? What the hell happened to me?
“My head feels like it’s about to split open,” I mutter.
“That’s normal post-anesthesia. I’ll get you something for the pain.” He pulls a pen from his coat and lifts his clipboard. “Can you move your fingers?”
I force myself to comply, and my hand twitches. He nods, scribbling notes. Every motion he makes sends a chill down my spine—not because of what he says, but because of what he doesn’t.
“Shake my hand as hard as you can,” he says.
I do.
“Good grip. Now… Do you remember what happened?”
