I don't care what I have to do.
I'm getting us both out.
Or I'm dying trying.
15
Becca
Everything hurts.
That's the first thing I'm aware of when I wake up—again—for what feels like the hundredth time in however many days it's been.
Pain.
Sharp and dull at the same time, radiating from my ribs, my wrists, my shoulders. My head throbs with a low, persistent ache that won't quit. My throat feels raw, like I've been screaming, though I don't remember doing it.
Maybe I did.
Maybe I don't want to remember.
I shift slightly in the bed, and my body protests immediately. A sharp breath hisses through my teeth before I can stop it.
"Easy."
His voice.
Low. Steady. Right there.
I turn my head slowly, and there he is.
Silas.
Sitting in the chair beside the bed like he's been there for hours. Maybe he has. His elbows rest on his knees,hands loosely clasped, eyes locked on me with that same unreadable intensity he always has.
He looks tired.
Not exhausted—just… worn. Like he hasn't slept much. His jaw is shadowed with stubble, his hair slightly disheveled. He's still wearing the same black tactical pants and fitted shirt from before, though the sleeves are pushed up to his elbows now.
I can see the edge of my tattoo on his forearm.
The warrior woman.
The one I inked into his skin weeks ago.
It feels like a lifetime ago.
"You need to stop moving so much," he says quietly. "Your ribs are still healing."
I swallow, my throat dry and tight. "How long have you been sitting there?"
"Long enough."
That's not an answer.
I push myself up slightly, ignoring the way my ribs scream in protest. The IV tugs at my arm, and I glance down at it—clear fluid dripping steadily into my vein. Monitors beep softly in the background, tracking my heart rate, my oxygen levels, whatever the hell elsethey're monitoring.
The room smells clean. Sterile. Like antiseptic and fresh linens. Nothing like the warehouse.
