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KATE
I had been having a lot of weird dreams.
Swiss was in all of them.
He was eating a cheeseburger in one.
In another, he was murmuring something about a heartbeat.
There might’ve been something about him dancing or singing. But that couldn’t have been right.
Each time, he was close enough to smell. My left hand was encased in his dry, firm grip. I ached to squeeze it, to let him know I was there. But I couldn’t reach. I was down too deep, coming in and out. At one time, there was something stuffed down my throat, and I had clawed at it, trying to pull it out.
Swiss was there too. I was reasonably sure he said the word ‘fuck’ at least five times in two sentences.
I’d wanted to smile at that, but I drifted off again.
This latest time, though, I managed to claw my way out.
There were a lot of things going on. Various machines beeping, which I deduced were attached to me as the hospital bed and room came into focus. I must’ve somehow survived Preston trying to beat me to death.
And if I’d survived, there was no way I wouldn’t be in a hospital. I distinctly remember the sounds of my bones cracking, a warmness and fullness in my stomach that I was pretty sure signified internal bleeding.
I assumed I was on drugs since the pain was just under the surface, urgent and overwhelming.
My throat stung. Burned. Like the pits of hell. Whatever drugs they were pumping into me weren’t strong enough to numb that.
Flashes rushed through my mind.
Preston’s hands on my neck, his nostrils flaring. Preston’s furious eyes as they took in the letters on my hip, bulging with fury.
With evil.
Pure evil.
Then there was cold. Empty coldness. The hard ground. Arms around me. Swiss murmuring things. His warmth.
Not much else after that.
My eyelids felt like they were made of cement. Sticky. Heavy. Gritty. It took some time to open them. Considerable effort. And I was tired. Exhausted, really. Even though I surmised I’d just woken up from something resembling a coma.
But I fought against that. I used the hand in mine to grip on to as I pulled myself out. When my fingers flexed around it, there was movement.
“Baby?”
The voice was coarse. Full of anguish. Worry. Hope.
I worked harder to lift my eyelids. The room was blurry at first, so I had to squeeze my eyes shut against the harsh light.
“Countess?” Softer this time. Pleading. The hand holding mine lifted, then his lips pressed on my fingers. “Wake up for me, baby.”
I held on to that.
Swiss came into view. He was leaning forward, our intertwined hands resting against his mouth as if he were in prayer.
He looked rough. There was stubble on his face. I’d never seen him with facial hair. He was religious about his shaving routine. I recalled teasing him about it. Then he skipped it one morning and left me with rashes on my inner thighs.
His eyes were bloodshot. As if he hadn’t slept in years. There was a ruggedness to him, a wildness that even I could recognize while feeling groggy and drugged up. He looked like an exposed nerve. A wild animal.
