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I have a plan.
Finish my degree.
Get a job.
Meet a guy.
Settle down.
Have two and a half kids.
You know, the American dream.
Getting pregnant at twenty-seven by my would-be assassin does not fit into those plans.
Even if he would make some cute ass babies.
Groaning, I force away the image of what our children would look like. Doesn’t matter how adorable they would be, there is no way in hell I’m ever having kids with that psycho.
Another forty minutes pass and I’m back in the exam room with Tyler pacing by my side.
Covering my face with my arm, I groan, “Can you please stop moving so much?” With my arm still over my eyes, I can’t see if he complies but the sound of shifting fabric stops after a few seconds. I chance a glance and find he has deposited himself into the plastic chair set next to the hospital bed.
A few moments of blessed silence pass, the only sound in the room is the consistent beeping of the various machines I’m attached to. I focus on my breathing and not the feeling that my entire world is crashing down around me.
Tyler clears his throat, about to say something when a tall man enters the room, his white coat standing out against his rich black skin. My eyes meet his and I’m grateful to find compassion reflecting back in them. I’m not sure I would be able to handle a dickhead physician believing he is god’s gift to the world.
The doctor makes his way into the room, glancing toward Tyler in the corner before focusing back on me. “Hi Miss Marcia, I’m Dr. Presston.” He gives me a soft smile as his gaze travels over my body, noting the darkening bruise spread across my chest with a small twitch of his eye. “How are you feeling?”
I shrug in response.
I don’t feel any worse than when I woke up in the room but definitely not any better.
Dr. Presston hums as he reviews my chart on a small tablet. “Well, it would appear your symptoms and imaging are in line with a recent CPR recipient. Are you aware of this being done for you?”
I force down the startled gasp at the obviousness.
Of course he gave me CPR. How the fuck else would he have brought me back from the dead?
I keep my face shuttered and suppress the shudder trying to make its way down my spine. The physician waits for me to respond, tapping away at his screen. Clearing my throat, I mutter, “No. I had no idea.” The lie falls from my lips and I feel dirty. Each time I cover up for what Killian did to me, a piece of my soul darkens further.
Dr. Presston eyes me in surprise, most likely his patients are usually aware of their rescuers.
Fuck, I should have come up with a better lie than “no”.
I mentally berate myself, keeping my expression neutral under his watchful eye.
Deciding the issue doesn’t concern him beyond my immediate medical care, he tucks the tablet under his arm and gently picks up my wrist, pressing two fingers against my pulse point. He repeats the process on each of my limbs.
Seeming satisfied with the results, he taps away again on the screen. “Aside from the few things we would expect to find in your situation,” He doesn’t mention his disbelief butthe inflection in his voice makes it clear he doesn’t believe my ignorance to said situation and doesn’t appreciate being lied to about it.
Trust me, I wish I could tell you everything.
Tapping once more on the tablet, he opens something and tilts the device so I can see the screen. He proceeds to explain my results and the cause of my symptoms but most of his words don’t connect, my mind traveling back to last night again and again.
I startle when Dr. Presston gently pats my arm. Smiling softly at me, he says, “You were very lucky Miss Marcia. It would appear whoever saved your life knew what they were doing and there shouldn’t be any lasting damage.” He means it as a comfort but his words have the opposite effect.
A sob breaks free from my chest, escaping my lips. Before I can blink, Tyler is next to me. Taking hold of my hand and smoothing back my hair, he murmurs comforting words. They don’t do anything to calm the chaos in my head.
