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“Good morning. Glad to see you’re awake,” a female voice I don’t recognize greets.
A tall, pretty woman with cropped red hair comes into focus when my eyes crack open again. She’s standing at the foot of my bed but is not the only person in the room.
I can feel him. Saint.
My eyes dart around the familiar room. My room.
How did I get here? The last thing I can remember was getting into Saint’s car. Everything after that is blank.
My eyes close again, but I wedge them open long enough to see Saint rousing from sleep in a chair at my side with his head in an uncomfortable position on a pillow.
He stretches his neck, then straightens on a yawn.
“She was out all night,” he says, stretching his arms above his head. “She hasn’t moved.” His voice sounds groggy, as if he hasn’t slept at all.
“I think Alexa can speak for herself,” the woman responds, motioning to me.
Everything was hazy and disorienting at first, but one look at Saint and it all came rushing back.
Betrayal and death. So much death.
Saint’s firm hand grips mine. “Lexy,” he cries, springing to my side instantly, and I wince in pain.
“Shit. Fuck. Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he rasps, his voice still sleepy.
I can’t face him, not after everything that’s happened. Turning my head in the opposite direction, I pulled my hand from his grip. I don’t want him here.
Noting my discomfort, I hear the woman ask Saint to give us a minute. He refuses at first, demanding I speak to him. I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep. I need my head clear when I confront him.
“She’s still sleepy due to all the medication,” the lady says. “Why don’t you go and get her mom? I’m sure she’ll be glad to hear she’s awake. Maybe get yourself a coffee and something to eat. I’ll need a few minutes here anyway to check her stitches,” she offers.
A sense of relief washes over me when the door closes, thankful he doesn’t put up a fight.
“You can open your eyes now, honey. He’s gone,” the voice I don’t know calls to me.
I open to see her standing in front of me with a small flashlight in her hand. She stops near my face, holding up a finger with instructions to follow her movements. Once satisfied, she sets it back on the table and takes a seat next to me.
“My name is Julia. I’m the doctor who treated you. Do you remember what happened to you?” Julia asks gently.
I shake my head, my mind filled with memories I can’t bear to confront.
“A bullet pierced your side.”
My eyes almost pop out of their sockets. “I was shot?”
“Yes. You were very fortunate. It could’ve been much worse. I’ve stitched your wound, but you’ll need to stay on IV antibiotics for another twenty-four hours. Then we’ll switch you to tablet form. Your dressings will need to be changed daily until the stitches dissolve. It’s important to keep the wound clean to avoid infection.”
I wince when I attempt to sit up as pain shoots across my lower stomach.
“My mom. Is she here?”
“Kelly’s with your friends downstairs. I’m sure she’ll be up any second now that Saint knows you’re awake.”
The relief I feel is temporary as the cramping in my lower stomach intensifies, serving as a painful reminder that something is terribly wrong. Julia gives me a hand when I struggle to sit up.
This pain is different. It is not coming from my side.
Pulling back the covers, I look down in between my legs. No. My lips tremble when I see blood, and tears swell in my eyes at the realization.
