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The woman freezes, then lets out a soft sigh.
“You found your wife like this?” she asks.
Wife.That word makes me shudder. Not necessarily in a bad way, either. “Yes.”
The paramedic’s eyes slide down Emma’s body. Assessing. Observing. When they pass over her waist, something twinges.
I don’t like that shit at all.
“What?”
Her gaze jerks to me. “Nothing.”
“Say it.”
Another sigh. This one more labored. “Will she need a rape kit at the hospital?”
I go cold.Rape kit.This is a fucking nightmare. I’ll kill the man who did this. I swear to God I’ll kill him—as slowly and painfully as any man has ever been put to death before.
When we get to the hospital, the nurses have to pry her out of my arms. The only way they manage to get me to let go is when the blue-eyed paramedic puts her hand on my arm and whispers, “They’re just trying to help her. Let them. For her sake.”
So I let go, though nothing has ever been harder. As I watch them transfer her onto a stretcher, for the second time in my life, I feel utterly and completely helpless.
“It’s never easy to see someone you love hurt,” the paramedic advises in more of that same soft whisper. “Have faith.”
Faith? Fuck that. Faith has neverbeen a part of my life. Neither has love. And for good cause—because the way I’m feeling right now is the exact reason why getting too close to Emma was a bad idea.
Love destroys you.
Faith ruins you.
I follow the gurney up to the second floor. A nurse tells me they’re going to run some tests, but I barely hear any of what she’s saying until the very end. “ … you her husband?”
I swallow and focus on her. “No.”
The nurse raises her eyebrows. “Boyfriend?”
“Something like that.”
She accepts that and nods. “Does she have any medical conditions we should know about?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Is she allergic to anything?”
I’m coming up blank. “Not that I know of.”
“Is she pregnant?”
I feel my heartbeat slow for a second. “I don’t know… She might be. We’ve been… trying.”
“Very well.” She scribbles something on a clipboard. “We’ll run a blood test.”
“I want to be with her when you do it.”
I turn and march toward Emma’s door while the nurse still has her nose buried in her clipboard. Emma’s gash has been stitched up, but her bruises have only darkened. Her forehead is a mottled collage of black and blue and there’s a nasty purple gleam on her thighs.
They’re prepping her hand for an IV when she stirs. The vein in her forehead starts pulsing erratically as she moans.
