MORGAN
“Oh good, you’re awake.”
I blink a couple of times to clear my vision, then jump at the stranger staring back at me, way too close. And oh my god, fuckingouch!
“Easy.” His hand on my shoulder gently pushes me back until I’m horizontal again. “You don’t want to pull your stitches out.”
“Stitches?” It comes out sounding more likesttchhs. My mouth is dry and gross and I feel spacey. As weird as it sounds, I feel a little... high? It’s been a while since I smoked anything like that, but I recognise the aftereffects.
The guy peering down at me straightens. His dark eyes narrow as he studies me, but they’ve got a kindness to them that sets me at ease. “You’ve got stitches across your back and thighs and considerably more across your stomach. They can come out in about a week to ten days, hopefully, but until then you need to be careful moving about.”
“What?”
I don’t understand.
I mean I get what he’s saying, but what the fuck? I lift my head to try and look down at myself butwoah. A wave of nausea hits me so hard I screw my eyes shut and swallow back thesudden urge to throw up. It takes several shallow breaths before I dare open my eyes again.
“Oh, and you’ve also got a concussion.” The guy—maybe a doctor?—smiles down at me, and wow, it’s a killer, and also kind of familiar but I can’t place how. “I’m Corey, by the way.”
Weird way to introduce himself if he is a doctor. Keeping my head as still as possible, I glance around at the room I’m in. Definitely not a hospital, but the white walls and sterile setting screams some sort of medical facility.
Where the fuck am I?
My heart rate kicks up, the high I woke up with quickly being chased away by the adrenaline flooding my system. Sweat prickles my skin, fear building as I try and remember what happened to put me here. Wherever the fuckhereis?
“Morgan,” Corey says softly, and my eyes snap up to meet his. “Do you remember what happened?”
“No.” The answer spills out of me, and it occurs to me then that maybe I should’ve lied. I have no idea who did this to me or if Corey is a good guy or not.
Jesus, Morgan, you’ve watched too many true crime documentaries. Not everyone’s a serial killer.
There’s a tingle at the back of my mind, a feeling that something bad happened, but the more I reach for that memory, the more it skitters away.
Fuck.
“Where am I?” Maybe that’ll help or at least give me somewhere to start.
“At the Wild Wolves’ compound. We found you in the woods, you were almost dead.”
It takes a moment for his words to sink in. To make any kind of sense. “Wild Wolves?”
He nods. “Do you remember coming here yesterday?”
“Yes.” The memory surfaces as I answer. And really, if I was going to forget anything, why couldn’t it be that humiliating experience? I groan and close my eyes, wishing the bed would swallow me whole. I wonder if Corey was there when I made an absolute tit of myself.
Footsteps sound, then voices too low for me to make out words.
“Do you remember anything after that?” That voice...fuck me, it’s as sexy as ever. But now I know firsthand the wanker it’s attached to. Still sends a shiver through me, even as I scowl.
I snap my eyes open, refusing to react at the fucking unfair hotness that is Lynx Harper. He’s wearing a T-shirt this time, which is a shame. He might be a dick, but he’s still nice to look at. His T-shirt is plain black, like hissoul,and unfairly makes his eyes seem that much bluer.
“Morgan?” It’s like a whip cracking and I startle again, enough to pull the stitches that feel like they’reeverywhere.
I glance up to meet eyes full of nothing but cold impatience, and rage chases away the pain and any lingering embarrassment.
Fuck him.
“No. After your less than friendly welcome, I left and...”
