Win wheezes. Coughs. Breathes.
Finally, a sob breaks free.
He kept his promise.
61
Win
Beeping.
It’s soannoying. The ache in my eyes syncs to the steady beat of the obnoxious machine, pulsing harmonies throughout my skull. It’s an orchestra of agony.
Damn, I’m hungover as fuck. What did Mason give me?
Wait.
I’m in Fort Manor.
I've been here for months.
Sober.
Was it all a hallucination?
No. It was too real.
As my brain buffers to get back online, new pains and aches make themselves known across my body. Groaning, I peel my hundred-pound, crusty eyelids open.
Jesusthat’s bright.
“There’s my baby.”
Blinking rapidly, the blurry figure sitting beside my bed comes into focus. Morning light filtering through the windowframes him in a golden glow, a crown of tousled golden brown waves falling over the most vibrant shade of hazel eyes I’ve ever seen. But the sunshine is nothing compared to the beam of his smile.
“Am I in heaven?”
That beautiful smile instantly morphs into a scowl as he slaps my blanket-clad thigh. “No, asshole, and you’re not going there any time soon. Got it?”
I love Remy Sullivan so fucking much it’s stupid.
My raspy chuckle hurts. “Ay-ay, captain.”
He squints. The corner of his lips twitches. “You feeling ok?”
Glancing at the IV in my arm, then back to him, I shrug. “If feeling like a Mack truck ran me over is ok, then yeah.”
Those stunning eyes roll. “Glad to know you’re still a smartass.”
“Unfortunately, it’ll take more than a bitch drugging me with a lethal dose of fentanyl to erase my incredible sense of humor.”
His eyes glaze. He bites the inside of his cheek. I sigh, stretching my pinky toward his, linking them. Tears well on his lower lashes.
“You saved me again.”
He sniffles. Nods. Shakes his head. “You saved yourself. You called me and I was able to three-way with Detective Montague. He recorded everything. They got her.”
Weights I’ve worn for over half a decade lift. A wave of peace settles over me.
