Page 20 of The Russian's Bought Bride

That’s the only explanation that makes any sense anymore, now that nothing fits together or feels real.

It’s like I’ve been dropped into someone else’s life. Someone unlucky enough to have everything ripped out from under her in the span of a few hours, all while unconscious.

My dad is dead.

The notion hits again and again, just as hard as the first time, like my brain keeps forgetting and then remembering just to torture me.

Dead.

I press the heel of my hand against my chest like it’s the only thing holding my heart together, like I can stop it from splintering any further, but it’s useless.

As easy as it would be, I can’t just lie here, and I can’t just accept this.

Everything in me is screaming that something is wrong…more wrong than just grief and loss. This is something I don’t understand yet, and I hate that.

Not understanding leaves too much in the air, and the unknowns are almost as hard to face as the loss itself.

Pushing myself upright again, slower this time, I grit my teeth through the weakness still clinging to my body even after spending numerous hours in this room. My muscles protest, and my head spins slightly, but I force myself to sit there anyway.

I have to think, and more importantly, I need to do something.

My mind drifts to the clinic, the surgery, the doctors, then to Liam, and my stomach twists.

Nothing about this is right.

My gaze snaps toward the bedside table, then to the rest of the room, hoping I might see some of my belongings if he was decent enough to grab them. But, of course, there’s nothing. It just looks like a guest room that’s dressed up to look welcoming enough, but is rarely used.

Panic rises all over again, but I pause and focus on my breathing.

Okay, that’s fine. That’s…definitely not fine, but it’s out of my control.

Swinging my legs slowly over the side of the bed, my bare feet hit the floor, and the cold shocks through me. Glancing down, it registers that I’m wearing the clothes I had on when I arrived at the clinic, and that makes me hesitate.

I should still be wearing a gown, but I’m not.

Immediately, another wave of anger hits me at the thought of Liam or the man who was with him dressing me, but I have to ignore it for now.

More importantly, I need to get out of here, find a phone, and call the police.

The thought locks into place, seeming like the most logical move to make in all of this. If I can just get away from him, then maybe I’ll have a better chance of understanding whatever the hell happened to me.

My steps are a bit hesitant at first, but as I move and get more blood flowing in my legs again, they become easier.

I make it halfway across the room before the door opens, and he’s there without missing a beat.

Jolting back, I grab the nearby dresser and look up at him, feeling caught.

Liam’s eyes immediately flick down to my unsteady stance, then back up to my face, and his expression tightens slightly.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” I snap, though my voice wavers, instinctively wanting to back down. “I’m leaving.”

“You’re not in any condition to do that.”

“I don’t care,” I mutter, gripping the dresser harder. “I need a phone.”

His expression shifts, and a more intense look settles into his features. “No, you don’t.”