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His soft breath warms my tender temple as his lips press over my sweaty brow.
“Mia? You called me Mia,” I whisper gutturally, my eyes trying to make sense of where I am, but it’s pitch black.
“Yes, because that’s your name,” Quinn explains, bundling me into his chest.
“It’s not Paige?”
Why am I so damn confused?
“No, that’s not you anymore.”
And he’s right. Paige died the day Hank did.
“Hank,” I sob as the dream slams into my brain, reawakening my fear. “He’s dead?”
“Yes, he is. I’m so sorry. It’s okay,” Quinn coos, his voice breaking with his pain.
Clawing onto his arms, I inhale deeply, and his warm scent calms me.
I feel like I’m going crazy because everything is so fuzzy and sore, and I’m just so tired. It hurts to think, and I want to switch it off.
I don’t want to think or breathe.
“Sleep, Red. Go to sleep.I’ll be here when you wake.”
And I do.
Birds chirp.
I try to turn, but it hurts to breathe.
Open your eyes!I yell at myself, but my eyes feel like they’ve been hinged closed with concrete.
“Red…are you awake?”
His soft voice is like music to my buzzing ears, and suddenly, my eyes desperately want to open and see the man before me.
“Quinn?” I croak, barely audible.
“Oh, thank God,” he says, a relieved breath whooshing from his chest. “Can you open your eyes for me?”
After a few moments of desperately trying to pry them open, they finally peel apart, but my vision is blurred as dried gunk sticks to my lashes, hindering my vision. However, I try to focus on the one important thing—Quinn.
Holy shit, he looks horrible. His untidy hair is tied back at his nape, but most of it falls around his weary face. His eyes are bloodshot and lined with fatigue, and he desperately needs to shave.
“You look like shit,” I say, my voice sounding like I swallowed a grater.
Quinn’s mouth tips up into a small smile as he kneels by the bed, softly grasping my hand.
“Where are we?” I ask, looking around the dimly lit room.
“Just outside of South Dakota,” he replies, his thumb rubbing over my tattoo softly as his eyes never leave my face.
“South Dakota?” I choke out, attempting to sit up, but Quinn’s fingers tighten around my wrist so I remain prone. “Shit, how many days have I been out?”
Quinn sighs as he closes his eyes briefly before opening them and replying, “Four days.”
“What?” I ask, wincing when I attempt to sit up again.
