I run a hand through my hair, pulling hard on the strands. “You send all this to Zephyr?”
“Yeah. It ain’t gonna help much, though. Unless she can find somethin’ about ‘your Nova.’ Or ‘Prophet.’ But when you can talk to Grace, maybe she’ll remember more.”
Maybe. Or maybe her battered mind will shield her from whatever horrible memory those goddamn flowers triggered.
The scent of antiseptic is too thick in the air. The hospital bed too empty. The room too quiet. It feels like hours pass, but my watch says it’s only been twenty minutes when the door opens and Dr. VanHorn wheels Grace back into the room.
Fuck. She looks so frail. Eyes glassy, mouth slack, and her hands shake as she fidgets with the hospital gown.
“Captain Stone.” Dr. VanHorn’s voice is calm—too calm as she rolls the chair right next to the bed and pulls back the sheet. “Grace’s vitals are stable, but I’d like to keep her overnight for observation.”
“No. I want to go home.” Grace tries to stand, but her left knee buckles and she collapses back into the wheelchair. “Shit.”
“Darlin’,” I drape her arm around my shoulders and help her to the bed, “you collapsed.”
She gives me a look that might as well say, “I know. I was there.”
The doctor slides a small tablet from the pocket of her coat. “Grace’s CT scan worries me. There’s a small bone fragment lodged in her temporal lobe that wasn’t there when I saw her two weeks ago.” She taps the screen, then points to a white slash amid a sea of dark gray. “Scar tissue has started forming around it. Left unchecked, it could lead to increased pressure in her brain.”
Pressure. In her brain.
My throat goes dry. “And that means…?”
“Surgery.” Her voice is gentle, but the word lands like a hammer. “Soon. Within the week if possible. Right now, her intracranial pressure is only slightly elevated. But if it continues to rise, the risks increase. Seizures, partial paralysis, even the loss of speech.”
Grace jerks in my arms, a sharp inhale catching in her throat. I curl around her, pulling her against me like I can shield her from all the potential horrors the doctor just called out in harsh detail. “And if you take it out—she’ll be okay?”
Dr. VanHorn shakes her head. “I can’t take it out. Neurosurgery is my field, but I was in a car crash last year that left me with minor nerve damage in my dominant hand. But I can tell you that any brain surgery carries serious risks—bleeding, infection, stroke. Because of the fragment’s location, I’d be especially worried about language and memory side effects. Aphasia. Cognitive changes. Short and long term memory loss.”
Grace’s hands ball into fists in her lap. She trembles once, then shudders like the weight of the words is too much to bear. “The last time someone cut into my head, I lost everything—even my name. I won’t—I can’t—go through that again.”
I cup her face, desperate to anchor her, to anchor myself. “Look at me, darlin’.” When her eyes finally lift to mine, fear swimming in their depths, I swallow hard past the fire in my chest. “We’ll find the best neurosurgeon in the country. You hear me? You’re not losing yourself. Not this time.”
Dr. VanHorn’s gaze flicks from me to Grace, then softens. “If it were my wife, Captain Stone, there are three or four surgeons I’d call. I’ll get you their names. Grace, I know you want to go home—and I actually agree, that’s the best place for you right now. But I need you here for the next couple of hours so I can track your intracranial pressure. If it stays stable, I’ll discharge you. If it doesn’t, you’ll be admitted. No arguments.”
Grace presses her lips together, her hand tightening on mine. “Two hours. I can’t stay here any longer than that. Please.”
I kiss her knuckles, holding on, hoping she’ll understand that I’m on her side. Always. Forever. “Two hours, darlin’. Then you, me, and Belle…we’re either walkin’ out of here together, or sleepin’ here tonight. All of us.”
Chapter Sixty-Three
Grace
I follow the rich scent of coffee down the hall to the kitchen. AJ leans against the counter, staring out the window with two mugs lined up side by side.
“You’re up early,” he says, his voice low and controlled in the quiet of the kitchen.
“I never sleep well when you’re on a stakeout.”
The memory brings tears to my eyes. If I have the surgery—even if I don’t—I could lose the few fragments of our life together I have. Our whispered “I love yous.” AJ standing at the stove, pouring so much butter over our popcorn, it practically dripped with the stuff. The look on his face the first time I called him Aaron.
“Did you sleep?” I ask, shuffling over to him and wrapping my arms around his waist from behind.
“Didn’t want to.” He shrugs, like spending the night watching me breathe is just what he does now.
Nightmares woke me more than once. Memories of the ceremony that almost killed me slowly piecing themselves together. Each time, I found him sitting up, his back against the headboard, and his gaze fixed on me.
Dark circles smudge AJ’s eyes, but he pours the hot water into my mug, gives it a stir, and passes it to me. Tenderness softens his expression, the deep, all-consuming love we’ve found for the second time so very obvious in his gaze.
