She should not hear.
She should be too deep under sedation, too hurt, too far below the surface of pain.
But as I leave, one tear slips from the corner of her closed eye and trails silently into her hair.
CHAPTER 29
EVIE
The hospital tries to keep me.
That is adorable of them.
Saint Orra’s trauma ward smells like antiseptic, healing gel, overheated circuitry, and fear disguised beneath professional calm. Blue diagnostic light glows over every bed in the recovery bay, soft and pretty enough to make the machines look kinder than they are. Rain taps against the reinforced windows beyond the privacy curtain, a steady silver whisper against the glass. Somewhere down the hall, an elderly man curses at a nurse with impressive lung capacity, and another patient’s monitor chimes in a rhythm too cheerful for a place where bodies come after the world breaks them.
My shoulder feels like someone poured molten glass into the joint and then politely asked it to become bone again.
The med-cradle has my right arm immobilized from wrist to collarbone. A transparent regen field pulses faintly over the plasma wound, knitting tissue with cold little sparks that itch more than hurt until I breathe wrong. My ribs ache. My hip screams when I shift. My head throbs behind one eye, and every part of me seems to have registered a formal complaint with management.
I open my eyes and see Nara standing beside the bed with both hands on her hips.
“No,” she says.
I blink at her. “Good morning?”
“No.”
“That’s still not a greeting.”
“It is the answer to whatever stupid thing just crossed your face.”
“My face is injured and innocent.”
“Your face is planning a felony against medical advice.”
I swallow. My throat feels raw. “Where is he?”
Mira’s expression tightens.
That is enough.
I start pushing myself upright with my good arm.
Pain detonates through my shoulder, ribs, spine, hip, skull, and possibly soul. The monitors spike immediately. The room answers with offended beeping. Nara grabs my uninjured shoulder and presses me back with more strength than her size suggests.
“Absolutely not,” she snaps.
“Where is he?”
“Kauss is handling?—”
“If you say handling it, I will rip this tube out and strangle you with it.”
“You could not strangle a sandwich right now.”
“Then get me a sandwich and we’ll test that theory.”
“Evie.”
