Page 36 of The Savage

I look from him to his hand. ‘Is that medication going to put me to sleep?’

He looks a little nervous. ‘Well, it contains a sedative that⁠—’

‘Then, no.’

‘But… the tests⁠—’

‘Later.’

He sets the vial down on the tray with a deliberate click, as if to remind me it exists. ‘Then at least allow me to examine your incision.’

‘Turn around,’ I tell her, not him.

She startles. ‘What?’

‘Turn around. I don’t want you to see me bleed. You’re squeamish around blood. I don’t think this so-called memory loss erases that too?’ I raise my brow.

And intimate knowledge? It does something to her.

I watch the war in her face as compassion tries to beat back her naked terror of realising I know her. Intimately. At last she sets her jaw, turns the chair so she’s facing the monitors instead of me. The older doctor steps close, hand hovering over the bandage, eyes flicking between line and wound.

‘You will need to lie back,’ he murmurs.

‘Do it fast,’ I say. ‘I’m not finished.’

His hands are competent, but the sting’s sharp and the heat of infection hums under the tape. I watch her shoulders tense, the rosary bite into her fingers. She’s listening to every hiss I can’t quite hide.

A long ten minutes later, when the doctor steps away, I say, ‘Turn back.’

She does and God help me, I feel as if I didn’t take a complete breath the whole time her eyes weren’t on me.

I shift my attention to the doctor. ‘Need a few answers. First of all, where the hell am I? The last thing I remember was being in a hospital bed that was not… this place.’

‘You don’t remember waking up last night, gathering the men and leaving here to…’ He pauses, glances at her before returning to me.

‘Of course I remember that. But I didn’t exactly stop for the guided tour, did I? So where the fuck am I and who brought me here?’

He adjusts his glasses, buying himself a second. ‘Istituto San Cristoforo, in Modena. You were transferred here after your accident in the United Kingdom.’

Giada’s breath catches as I frown. ‘How long ago?’

‘Three days,’ he says carefully. ‘You were placed in an induced coma to stabilise swelling in the brain and control the pain from multiple fractures in your ribs and arm. Until now, your vitals have been remarkably strong—’ He hesitates when I stare him down. ‘You’re very fortunate, Signor Salvatore.’

I grunt. ‘What did I break?’

‘Mostly soft-tissue injuries and burns from the crash. The most serious issues are the severe concussion and your left arm – a clean fracture. It will take six to eight weeks to heal properly.’ He clears his throat when I feel a growl building, adding quickly, ‘Given your robust physical conditioning and regenerative capacity, I expect a full recovery with good physiotherapy.’

I breathe once through my nose, letting that sink in. A fracture, not an ending. I can work with that. ‘Six weeks,’ I say, more to myself than him. ‘Then I’m back in the car.’

The doctor looks faintly appalled. ‘Racing, Signore? You risk compromising⁠—’

‘Racing,’ I repeat. ‘Six weeks.’

His lips thin into a professional line.

Next to me, she’s still perched in that chair, wide-eyed.

The name Salvatore obviously means nothing to her, but the word ‘racing’ sparks looks of muted bewilderment; she looks at me like I’ve just claimed to fly too close to the sun and enjoyed it.