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The next time I wake up, I expect to be in a hospital triage area, bleeding on the floor. Instead, I’m in a really posh hotel room, lying on a king-sized canopy bed draped in sumptuous silk linens. An over-the-top chandelier sparkles above me. It’s beautiful, luxurious—and completely overdone—and I am hella confused. My head is blazing with pain, so I try to keep still.
“Good,” says that incredible voice. “You’re awake.”
I cautiously turn my head to see the wealthy superhero sitting at the window on a velvet chaise lounge.
“I’m hallucinating,” I croak.
His brows furrow. “Are you?”
I swallow. My mouth is drier than a desert mirage. “I’m … seeing things.”
His lips curve up slightly. “That is usually what the term means, yes.”
“I’m seeing a hotel room bigger than my flat. And a stranger at the window.”
“A stranger at the window,” he echoes, amused. “You make it sound sinister, like a Hitchcock movie.”
“Are you sinister?” I ask. “Have I been … kidnapped? I warn you, my family has no money, so you’d be wasting your time if you wanted to send them one of my fingers and a ransom note. Now I actually do hope I’m hallucinating.”
He laughs. It’s an incredibly attractive laugh.
“One of your fingers?” he chuckles. “That escalated quickly. Are you religious?”
“God, no,” I splutter. “What does that have to do with hallucinating?”
“Probably a great deal, when you consider it. But that wasn’t why I was asking.”
Oh my GOD he is sexy. “Why were you asking?”
“You were mumbling about god. When you were drifting in and out of consciousness.”
I close my eyes as my cheeks glow in embarrassment.
Because you looked like a god when you rescued me.
Because you look like a god, full stop.
“Weird,” I reply, feigning innocence and hoping my blush faded fast. “I’m not into religion.”
“What are you into?” he asks. I may have been feigning innocence, but he certainly isn’t. There‘s a definite edge to his question. Or is it just that his voice is so seductive that anything he says comes out in a suggestive manner?
“Er…,” I begin. “Before we get into my general lack of faith and other philosophical quandaries, perhaps we could start with the basics?” Like, why am I lying in a hotel bed with a million thread-count sheets and a chandelier that could be sold to feed a small village? Why are there so many pillows on the bed? How did you get my blood off your crisp white T-shirt? Are you really not a kidnapper?
“Right,” the superhero says. “Of course. Go ahead.”
I should go ahead? I know nothing, plus I have a head wound. I want to know about this room, why I’m here, and him. Mostly, to be honest, I want to know about him.
“My name is Ivy,” I say.
“We know,” he replies. “Ivy Mickelson.”
Wait, what?
We know?
I sit up in bed despite the vise-grip of my headache and make proper eye contact with him. It’s not easy. Everything about him is so intense, it’s like looking into an eclipse.
“What do you mean, we know?”
