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Smiling now because I’m proving not to be a difficult patient when she’s likely coming to the end of her shift, she crosses over to me. After retrieving the remote from the floor, she flicks the TV off and returns it to the side table. With brutal efficiency, she tucks the sheets so firmly around me that I don’t have a hope and a prayer of prying them loose without my bruised ribs screaming in agony.
Once she’s done that, she collects the tray and makes her way to the door.
It’s only when she’s gone that I let myself relax as I stare up at the ceiling.
They think I’m dead.
I let out a slow breath of relief.
Rylan once told me that a shifter has one mate. Just one.Ever. There’s no rejecting the bond, no walking away. No shifter will ever let what’s his go. And especially not an alpha so controlling that he would chain me to his bedroom wall to stop me from running.
Death is the only way to break that bond. Will Rylan’s wolf know it? Or will he watch the news, think what I just thought, and let the possessive wolf side of him curl up and die?
I don’t know, but a girl can hope.
4
SAIGE
“Bradley, would it kill you to eat something other than hotdogs for lunch and dinner?”
I’ve just set down the white plastic cover for my dinner on the bedside table when the familiar voice makes me freeze.
The cops.Shit.
My gaze darts to the tray in my lap placed there moments before by Nurse Amy.
Earlier in the morning, she helped me up so I could use the bathroom and the second my legs gave way under me, I realized running isn’t going to be in my near future. If she hadn’t been there, I’d have been face down on the floor with no idea how to get back up again.
So, while I have no leg injuries, not moving for a week has made me feel as if I do.
Not only did she help me into the bathroom, she also got rid of the beeping machine. I still have the morphine drip needle stuck in the back of my hand, which isn’t a problem, but the cops are going to notice the beeping machine is no longer here, and they’ll know my condition has changed enough for them to stick around.
“They have ketchup on them, and everyone knows ketchup is a fruit.”
The footsteps move closer, and panic grips my heart. No one at the hospital has pushed to know my name or what happened on the bridge yet, but those are questions I can’t dodge from the cops.
“One squirt of ketchup does not—”
“Officers,” Dr. Trevor’s calm voice interrupts. “Back again, I see. Is there anything I can help you with?”
The footsteps stop and I breathe again. I start eyeing the distance between me and the window. My ribs still hurt, I’m almost positive I’m on at least the fifth floor since my only view is of tall buildings in the distance, and I still have the needle attached to the back of my hand that I’m going to have to yank out.
Still, none of that stops me from moving the tray to the side table as quietly as I can.
The steps move closer. “Doctor, just stopping by on the off chance she’s awake.”
I freeze. Shit, they’re just outside. What do I do? Throw the tray? Hide under the bed?
“I’m sorry, who?”
What?
“The Jane Doe from the bridge.”
A long pause. “Um… give me a second…” Paper rustles and I hold my breath as it does.
Surely doctors don’t just forget their patients like that. And especially not this one who's already stopped by to increase my pain meds after the nurse left a message about me not eating because I was in too much pain.
