Stealing her chance to reply, I disconnect our call and return my phone to my pocket. I enter Regan's curtained-off room ten heart-thrashing seconds later. When jumping from one dragon to another, swiftness is the only option. It's just a pity I want to take this dragon for a ride instead of slaying her as I do Theresa.
Regan stops sipping water from a plastic cup when she notices me standing in the doorway. The thin stitches holding together the split our bump caused don’t dampen her appeal in the slightest. The blood darkening her manicured brows enhances her green eyes, and the crinkle in her cheek proves some of her time in the emergency department was restful.
I’m not surprised by her eagerness to nap. I’m exhausted from all the tasks she undertakes every day, and I’ve only been shadowing her the past six weeks.
When a curious crinkle pops into her brow, I move to her bedside. “How are you feeling?”
She gestures to the nurse she’s had enough water before her eyes stray to mine. She looks as if she is about to chew me up and spit me out.
My assumptions are accurate when she snaps, “I thought I said no needles?”
I shouldn't smile, but I do. You can't see what I am seeing. Her tiny—although still provocative—body is swamped by a hospital gown three sizes too big. Her face is stark white, and the faint tremble of her top lip is more cute than concerning. She's putting on a brave front even though she is petrified.
She’s done similar the past six weeks. Her blank stares into space at precisely 10:03 every night when she thinks no one is watching, the mouthed promise she sends to heaven mere seconds later, and the way she runs every morning as if she is outrunning her fears reveal she is strong enough to hide her pain from the world, but not quite strong enough to completely erase it.
When Regan coughs, reminding me I’ve failed to answer her, I say, “You weren’t given any needles.”
"So how did this get in my arm?" She jangles her arm that has a cannula attached to it. It looks extra dainty since the enticing swell of her breasts is hidden by her hospital gown.
I twist my lips. “It’s plastic; it doesn’t count.”
"A needle is required to insert a cannula into a vein, isn't it?" she murmurs frailly, proving the extensive smarts that had her graduating law school with honors doesn’t extend to the medical field.
"Usually," I agree, stepping close to her. "But when I told them how much you hated needles, they shoved the cannula into your vein without one."
I praise the lord for my brilliance of thinking on the spot when I stump her. It is only for a second, but she’s still stumped all the same.
Her gaped mouth doesn’t dangle for long. “So they magically pierced a plastic tube into my arm?”
It is the fight of my life not to smile. She’s extra cute when she’s angry. Her top lip does this wobbly snarl thingy, and the fire in her eyes matches what you’d expect to see when she’s in the midst of ecstasy. She’s a fucking knockout—even after being knocked out.
After suppressing my guilt with a quick swallow, I continue my ploy of deception. "Other than your ability to blow spit bubbles in your sleep, no magic tricks were performed this evening."
Anger broadens from Regan’s gut to her face, the mirth in my tone agitating her even more.
“They did cut you,” I disclose, hating the look she is giving me.
Even being responsible for adding a scar to the most gorgeous face I’ve ever seen, I don’t want to be on the receiving end of this look. She’s not angry or embarrassed. She’s disappointed. That guts me more than any amount of yelling ever could.
“Did they give me a needle?” she questions with an impressive gulp.
“No,” I reply, shaking my head. “They used a scalpel.”
I rush to her bedside when her gills turn green. She sways so uncontrollably, I’m glad the safety rails are upright, or I may not have saved her from tumbling to the floor this time around.
Her eyes look like silver balls going to war in a pinball machine when I ask, “Not a fan of scalpels either?”
She swallows harshly before shaking her head. This is true pain, one that can’t be hidden by her bright smile and a go-get-‘em attitude.
I wait until the sorrow in her eyes moves to sincerity before asking, “How’s the head—truthfully?”
It pains her, but she grumbles, “Throbbing.”
I gesture for the nurse to get her some pain medication before wetting a washcloth in the sink.
“Let me,” I request when she attempts to remove the cloth from my hand. Not waiting for permission, I gently dab it on the angry bump above her brow. “It’s the least I can do.”
My last words were meant for my ears, but I clearly expressed them out loud when Regan assures, “This isn’t your fault, Alex. I shouldn’t have been so defensive. I’ve just been. . .” Her words are swallowed by a soft sigh.
