Stable.
Coma.
Those words don’t belong in the same sentence.
“Can I see her?” I ask, and now my voice is raw.
“Soon.”
I nod, dragging air into my lungs even though it feels like I am inhaling shards of glass.
She’s stable.
But she’s lying in a hospital bed, sedated, ventilated, fighting for every breath. And I almost lost her to a man who thought obsession was love.
Footsteps echo down the corridor again, sharp against the sterile quiet, and I glance up without meaning to.
Jett.
He walks toward us like this is just another night out. His shoulders are loose, his chin lifted. That lazy confidence is wrapped around him like armor. A nurse glances at him as he passes and offers a polite smile, completely unaware she’s looking at the man who put Effa on a ventilator.
Something inside me fractures.
He slows when he sees us, and that smirk settles onto his mouth as though it belongs there, like he rehearsed it. “How is she?”
The question floats between us.
My body moves before my mind catches up. I close the distance in three strides and fist my hand into the front of his shirt, slamming him back into the wall so hard the artwork rattles. My forearm crushes against his throat, cutting off his air as his head snaps back against the plaster. “You don’t get to ask that,” I say, voice low and lethal.
His hands claw at my wrist. “Get off—”
I tighten my grip until his words collapse into a strangled choke. His eyes widen, finally losing that smug sheen, finally looking afraid.
Good.
He drives his knee upward, catching me hard in the groin. Pain flashes white and hot, and my grip falters just enough for him to twist. He shoves me back, air ripping into his lungs as he lunges forward and tackles me around the waist.
We hit the tile floor with bone-jarring force. My head slams back, stars exploding behind my eyes. He scrambles on top, fistswinging wild and desperate. I turn my head, and his knuckles crash into the tile instead of my jaw.
He tries again.
This time, I catch his wrist mid-swing. “You thought she’d fall in love with you?” I snarl.
I buck my hips and roll us, reversing our positions in a violent surge. My weight pins him down. His back smacks against the floor, and I drive my fist straight into his face.
Cartilage gives with a sickening crack, blood erupting across the white tiles in a smear.
He gasps, stunned, but I don’t stop. I hit him again. And again. Each punch lands heavy, fueled by images I can’t get out of my head.
Effa limp in my arms.
Effa not breathing.
Effa surrounded by machines.
“You drugged her,” I growl, striking him across the cheekbone. “You dosed her like she was nothing.” I slam my fist into his jaw, a tooth flies across the tiles, skimming to a stop at Alana’s feet, making her gasp.
He tries to shove me off, but I plant my knee into his sternum and lean my weight forward, raining down blows that snap his head side to side. Blood spatters across the sterile tiles, bright and obscene against hospital white.
