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Scanning my eyes everywhere, I finally roll my head the other way, finally locating him. Our hands are clasped together and he squeezes once again, only this time I’m able to return the affection.
Drago stands tall on the other side of the bedrail, looking down at me. His forehead is puckered with his brows knitted together. D’s eyes appear nearly pitch black but rimmed red with worry. It bites at my chest, gnawing deep inside.
“Bri, baby?” His voice sounds broken and so unlike him.
Does he know that sweet boy is his son?No.
My mind shuts that thought down. If he did, he wouldn’t be here with me. He’d be out searching every hole for his boy just like I want to do now. We have to find him. The urgency pounds into my head, hammering over and over. Gabe has to be okay. He has to.
“Are you okay?”
My thoughts are lodged in my throat. Mike had to have gotten that Amber Alert out by now. He had to have. But how long has it been?
D sits down in a plastic chair that had been pulled close to the bed. The grief-stricken look that mars his face makes me want to crawl under the covers rather than face the man I’ve been keeping a huge secret from. I’m not weak, I remind myself, steeling my back on the thin mattress I’m lying on.
I stare at our clutched hands. Both of his are wrapped around mine, holding them close to his lips like he’s in prayer.
“Gabe,” I croak out.
“Stop worrying about that kid and worry about you,” he forces out, confirming he’s still in the dark about his son. “Are you okay?”
D doesn’t give me a chance to answer. Instead, he turns his face away from me, looking toward my feet.
“Is she okay? Is she going to be okay?”
My eyes follow the direction of his voice, landing on a tall, dark-skinned man dressed in a white coat who’s standing at the foot of my bed. My gaze zeroes in on the name threaded through the fabric in cursive script: Marcus Thornton, MD. He’s good-looking, late thirties I’m guessing, and even in my medically drug-induced hazy vision, I can see he’s well-built underneath his clothes.
He reminds me of someone—but who? I don’t know and it’s not something I care to waste my time examining. Gabe is my priority.
“Welcome back, Miss Andrews, or Detective Andrews, if you prefer,” he greets me. “I’m Dr. Thornton. I’m the trauma surgeon who treated your injuries upon arrival a few hours ago.”
A few hours ago?
How long ago was it? How long has that fucker had my baby?
Dammit!
Everyone is right. I’m already too attached, and I have been damn near from the beginning. I know he isn’t mine. I know I cannot keep him long-term. But that fact doesn’t stop me from caring about him, from loving him. It’s impossible not to.
“Bri. You can call me Bri—or Brianna,” I croak out, my mouth dry as a bone. I’ve never cared for the formalities or the titles.
“I prefer Miss Andrews or Detective Andrews.”
Then why the hell did he even ask? Whatever. I don’t care. All I care about is finding the little boy who was depending on me for his safety.
The cold, sterile environment of a hospital that until this moment has never bothered me, coats my skin, and starts to seep deep into my pores as it wafts up my nose, making my stomach churn with nausea.
I want out of this bed. I want out of this plain, off-white room. I want out of this hospital.
I have to get out of here if I’m going to find Diaz and his men who stormed into my home, shot me, and took what wasn’t theirs to take.
“How do you feel, Miss Andrews?”
My eyes flicker up to the doctor’s dark brown ones. He’s emotionless, and I suppose you have to be when you see the things they do on a daily basis. I know that better than most people. I have to turn off a lot when I’m on the job. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have lasted a week as a cop. You can’t wear your heart on your sleeve. That doesn’t mean I don’t have sympathy or empathy, because I do. It simply means I have to look at everything with a clear head in order to make the right decisions.
I also know I haven’t had a clear head since Gabriel and Drago both entered my life. If I had, maybe he wouldn’t have gotten taken.
“Fine,” I tell him. “When will I be released?”
