Ryder felt exposed. He was wearing nothing but boxers and the bandages. His body—once his pride, a machine of lean muscle and reflex—was now a bruised, swollen wreck. His left leg was a heavy white log. His chest was taped. Purple and yellow bruising bloomed across his flank like a map of violence.
Elena didn't flinch. Her face was a mask of professional detachment.
She placed her hands on his left foot, sticking out of the end of the cast.
Her fingers were cool.
Ryder’s breath hitched. The sensation of her touch—even clinical, even angry—sent a jolt through his nervous system that had nothing to do with the injury. It was a memory. It was theghost of summer nights by the creek, of skin on skin, of a time when "Elena and Ryder" was a sentence that didn't end in a period.
"Can you feel this?" she asked, squeezing his big toe.
"Yes."
"Wiggle them."
He concentrated. The signal traveled down the damaged wire of his leg. His toes twitched.
"Good. Capillary refill is normal. No sign of compartment syndrome."
She moved up. She walked to the side of the bed. She pulled a stethoscope from her pocket.
"Sit up. I need to listen to the lungs."
"I can't," Ryder gasped. "The ribs..."
"I'll help you. On three. One. Two. Three."
She slid her arm behind his good shoulder and lifted.
Ryder groaned, gritting his teeth as his ribcage protested. He smelled her then. Under the antiseptic, under the latex, she smelled exactly the same. Rainwater. Vanilla. And something else—something maternal and fierce.
She pressed the cold diaphragm of the stethoscope against his back.
"Breathe deep."
He inhaled. Sharp pain stabbed his side.
"Again."
He inhaled again.
"Crackles in the lower left lobe," she murmured, more to herself than him. "You're shallow breathing to avoid the pain. That's how you get pneumonia, Ryder. And pneumonia with a femur break equals a pulmonary embolism. Which kills you."
She pulled back, letting him sink onto the pillows. She draped the stethoscope around her neck.
She looked at his face. She saw the sweat. She saw the dilated pupils. She saw the way he was biting his lip to keep from screaming.
For a second, the mask slipped. Her eyes softened, turning that warm, honey-brown that used to be his favorite color.
"You're hurting," she said softly.
"I'm fine," Ryder lied. "Just... stiff."
"You're an idiot," she corrected, the softness vanishing instantly. "The nerve block is wearing off. Your BP is 160 over 90. You're in agony."
She walked to the dresser where a lineup of amber pill bottles sat.
"Oxycodone," she read the label. "Take one every four hours."
