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Down the hall.
Through the doors.
The wooden panels slowly closing behind him.
Leaving her in an empty room, the pool of Connor’s bright red blood spreading out by the second.
Thirty-Two
Connor
“Idon’t see why the hell I can’t just walk to the bathroom by myself,” he snapped, knowing he was being an asshole yet unable to stop himself.
He’d been in the hospital for a week.
He was more than ready to go home.
The doctors and nurses taking care of him were great, but he still thought that being a patient here sucked—always being poked and prodded and annoyed at all hours of the day and night. Hell, blood had been taken from him enough times that he could have sworn the laboratory department was made up entirely of vampires. Not to mention, his dressings had been changed often enough that he alone had certainly used the entire department’s supply budget.
“No,” Raven snapped back, having every right to be an asshole right back to him, even though she had shown more saintly patience than was really reasonable to expect.
To say they both made terrible patients was an understatement and a half.
It was just as well he was being discharged today.
He needed to get the hell out of here.
Before he did something like jump out a window.
That would hurt.
He was on a lot of meds—antibiotics, anti-nausea pills, painkillers. It was a veritable treasure trove of happy drugs, but he still didn’t have enough happy pills in his body to make jumping out a third story window not hurt.
Plus, Raven had just put him back together.
He didn’t need her pissed at him because he was jumping out windows.
“Why not?” he asked, now amused enough by his mental train of thoughts—windows, anyone?—to rein in his frustration.
“Why can’t my recently stabbed boyfriend hobble his own ass to the bathroom less than a week after nearly dying?” she asked, danger in every syllable.
“Yup. That about covers it,” he said, leaning on her more than he’d like.
But he lowered himself onto the bowl himself. Hashtag, winning.
She leaned against the wall, bracing herself in a way that told him she was going to stay—probably to make sure he wasn’t going to slump off the bowl and crack his skull open on the tile.
“I’ll holler if I need you, sweetheart.”
It was bad enough his ass was hanging out—he drew the line at using the facilities in front of the woman he loved.
She pressed her lips together, crossed her arms.
And didn’t move.
“Ipromise.”
A scowl.
