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“Once Snow can go home, we’ll throw everything we have at figuring it out,” Storm says, his eyes watching me closely. “I’ll call my guy at the FBI and see what he can tell me and if we can get at least some of what they seized back.”
“Thanks,” I sigh as the doors behind the reception desk swing open and all four of us turn our attention to Doc strolling out.
Unsurprisingly, he glares at me before turning on a megawatt smile for Wynter. If he wasn’t one of the only people I trusted with Snow’s health, I would put a bullet between his eyes.
“How is she?” I ask, unable to wait for him to grace us with the answer in his own time.
“She’s stable. But there were some complications.”
“What do you mean, complications?” I snap. I don’t have the time nor the patience to play games with him, and the idea that Snow will have to live with any kind of lasting effects from this has a deep ache piercing through my heart.
“The bullet damaged one of her ovaries, and it had to be removed. She also had severe blood loss which made it really touch and go for a while there.”
I suck in a breath and close my eyes to get a handle on my emotions. It’s not the time to lose my cool. Not when my Snowflake is lying in a hospital bed. “Can I see her? When can she be transported home?”
“You can see her, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to leave just yet. With the kind of blood loss she had, there can be unforeseen things that come up during recovery. It’s better she remains here for at least a day or two for observation before being transported.”
“She’s coming home today,” I growl. I don’t trust any of the doctors or nurses here. No matter how much I pay them, I can’t guarantee their loyalty. They could already be working for whoever is coming for us, and I can’t risk that.
Storm clears his throat and looks from me to Doc and back again. “Elijah, I know we don’t see eye to eye on much, but I think we should do what he says. How would you feel if you take her home and something goes wrong?”
“Then Doc can come home with us,” I say.
“Uh, I don’t think so.” He shakes his head. “I’m not the kind of doctor she would need if shit goes sideways. I would feel a lot more comfortable if she stays here.”
A growl works its way from my chest, anger raging through my veins. I can’t leave her here. Doesn’t he understand that Snow is my entire life and I won’t feel better until she’s behind the walls of my home where she’s safe?
Storm steps toward me. “I don’t like this any more than you do, but why don’t you go in and see her? You don’t want her to wake up alone.”
I close my eyes and let out a frustrated breath. He’s right. I want to be there when she opens her eyes to tell her everything is going to be okay and I will kill every motherfucker with any involvement today, because anyone who dares hurt my woman deserves to meet the devil himself.
57
Snow
Awarm hand tugs me out of a dreamless state, but my eyes refuse to open and my body won’t move no matter how hard I try to force it. Unfamiliar sounds fill my head, beeping, voices through a speaker, something heavy being wheeled down what seems to be a never-ending hallway.
Where the hell am I? And why does my throat feel like the desert?
The hand that holds mine squeezes, the warmth they omit is familiar, but my disorientated mind can’t muddle through to who it is.
I force my body to take a deep breath, and it gets caught in my throat when the pain hits me. So much pain that it forces my eyes open and I’m immediately blinded by blaring lights. Jesus Christ, this room is lit up brighter than a Christmas tree. The scent of disinfectant assaults me and the pieces finally start to click together as to where I am. Hospital.
“Snowflake?” a voice rumbles from beside me, and I immediately turn my head to face them. My head protests and stars dance in my field of vision, blinding me for long seconds. Fingers brush down my cheek and when my eyes finally focus, Elijah is staring back at me, worry clear in his gaze. “Thank God you’re awake.”
“What happened?” I croak. My throat feels like I’ve just been on a three-day bender and finally allowed myself to sober up.
“You don’t remember?” he asks, his eyes searching the table beside him before bringing a cup with a straw to my lips.
I drink greedily, the water slipping down my dry throat and through to my tender stomach. I shake my head as I continue to drink, not willing to give up the water to speak.
“You were shot.” He flinches at his own words, something dark crossing his face before he pulls the straw from between my lips. “That’s enough, I don’t want it to upset your stomach.” His words are softer than any he’s ever spoken to me, and I find myself craving the darkness he usually exudes.
My brows pinch together as memories crash into me. The church. Our wedding. The gunmen. The explosions. It all hits me all at once and takes my breath away.
“Snow?” The concern in his voice is evident, but I can’t tear myself away from the images assaulting me one after another. His fingers brush down my cheek and carefully brings me to face him. “Come back to me.”
It’s only now I realize my breaths are coming in hard and fast, panic washing over me like waves in the ocean and threatening to drag me out to sea. It’s all too much, and the memories mixed with the pain is too much for me to handle.
