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My eyes catch on the jug of water and an empty glass on the table to my right.
“Drink. You got it.”
Reaching over, he pours me a glass, pops a straw into it and then lifts it to my mouth.
Something akin to amusement glitters in his dark eyes, and it makes fire lick at my insides.
“You don’t need to enjoy this quite so much, you know,” I groan. Now I’ve been promised the relief of cool water, my throat is raw as fuck.
A smirk twitches at his lips, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he just nudges the straw against my lips, encouraging me to drink.
I take a few sips but stop the second it hits my stomach, because it makes me want to barf.
After placing the cup back on the table, he drags a chair closer and sits down beside me.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, that concern back and wrinkling his brow. I don’t fucking like it.
“Like I got hit by a bus,” I confess. “Did I?” I ask, genuinely wondering.
“No. You don’t remember?”
Closing my eyes, I try to focus on anything that happened before waking up here.
Steak. I remember eating steak. And drinking Dad’s favourite whisky.
Pain slices through my chest at the thought of him. Why is it I can’t remember the events leading up to being here, but the grief that has consumed me since the night Dad died is still there and just as oppressive as ever?
“No,” I say, keeping my eyes closed and resting my head back.
No one—especially not my sister’s fucking boyfriend—needs to see the grief-stricken look in my eyes right now.
There’s a reason I locked myself in my flat for so long. It was so none of them could see what a fucking mess I was. Here though, they’re going to have full access to the disaster that I’ve become.
“I have no idea.”
“Nico,” Daemon says softly and I crack my eyes open, sensing that he’s about to say something important, but before any more words leave his hips, the door behind him opens, and a familiar nurse slips in.
“Nico Cirillo, what a sight for sore eyes you are.” Janice, the terrifying nurse that we seem to always have the misfortune of being treated by, steps up to my bed. “I thought I told you lot that I didn’t want to see you here again.”
“Can’t say I planned it,” I admit on a sigh as she starts poking me.
“How much pain are you in?” she asks.
“A lot. And you prodding me sure doesn’t help.”
She pauses and shoots me a warning glare.
“I’ll increase your painkillers.”
“That would be wonderful.”
“They’ll make you drowsy, though.”
No problem. I’d rather be checked out of real life right now, anyway.
“Perfect. Give me everything you’ve got.”
She potters around for a bit, checking my vitals and writing notes on the clipboard at the bottom of the bed—I’m pretty sure anything to delay putting me out of my misery with more pain meds.
