Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 136731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Right now, I got a wife to get back to.
“How’s she doing?” My words are spoken quietly so as not to wake Ana.
Four days have passed, and Manda Rossi, Ana’s best friend and doctor, gazes over at me with half-glazed eyes before turning back to peer at the small woman in the center of the king-sized hospital bed in the sterile but private room. Manda organized for the weeklong stay at the small private hospital, and I am grateful for the quiet. It’s obvious that she’s tired, but she stays, probably for the same reason I do.
We’re both afraid we’ll lose her again.
The monitors beep lightly, and the IV continues to pump fluid into Ana’s frail body.
“She’s bad, Julius.” Her voice cracks. “Really bad.” She clears her throat in an attempt to gain some composure in a situation that leaves us both feeling shattered. She tries to speak but shakes her head. I don’t miss the slight quiver of her lips when she states a quiet, “I mean, she died. I barely brought her back.” She turns and glances at me with a meaningful look when she utters a hushed, “She didn’t want to come back. And she would’ve stayed dead if I hadn’t managed to convince Vander to bring me along.”
I look down at this no-nonsense woman and can’t deny I see part of Twitch in her character. I’m undeniably sincere when I tell her, “I don’t know what to say to you. Thank-you doesn’t seem like enough.”
My appreciation has her scoffing. The small, fiery redhead looks over at me, her gaze dark, and she all but spits, “Don’t you dare thank me. I knew. I knew all along what they were doing to her, and I… she—” The first of her tears fall. She dips her chin and takes in a broken breath. Her tone tortured, she whispers a harsh, “I did nothing. Nothing.” She lifts her tear-streaked face to look over at her friend. “Look what he did to her. I don’t know if she’ll ever recover from this. And if she doesn’t, that’ll be on me.”
I understand guilt. I feel it standing here, right at this very moment. Neither of us is completely blameless in what happened to Ana. I would love to pin the blame on somebody—anybody—but I can’t. If Manda knew about the abuse Ana took and did nothing, something tells me there was a reason for it. It’s clear to me that Manda loves Ana.
The thought of losing the Ana I love is too much to bear, so I say the only thing I can think of. “She’s tough. She’ll make it through.” But I don’t sound as confident as I ought to.
Her list of injuries is extensive, the worst being her amputated finger, a fractured wrist, and a broken ankle, but Manda and I both know it’s not the physical wounds we need to worry about.
How far can you stretch a rubber band before it snaps?
My feet carry me to her bedside. I slip my shoes off and slide in beside her, gently taking hold of her small, cold hand, and I rub at it, careful to avoid the IV settled in the back of it. Her left arm covered in a plaster cast up to just below her elbow, the ring finger on her left hand missing, I want to roar out my anger when my gaze settles on her bandaged face.
Manda’s friend, a highly sought plastic surgeon in these parts, came when called. He did all he could to save Ana’s face from the deep gash Maxim Nikulin inflicted, but he advised us it would likely take more than one surgery to make it unnoticeable, and that all depended on how well Ana healed.
Doctors were afraid for Ana. She had developed a hardcore case of anxiety in our time at the hospital. When one nurse came in to top up her morphine, Ana took one look at the shot and started to sweat bullets while gasping for breath. She passed out cold and Manda suggested that perhaps it was better for everyone if Ana remained sedated throughout her hospital stay.
I didn’t like it, but I comprehended the need for it.
Ana was scared to death at the thought of being hurt. Pain was her trigger, and it broke my damn heart to watch her go through her first panic attack.
When her hooded eyes open a mere slit, my chest aches from the sheer beauty of her living, breathing form. “Hey, baby.”
She swallows hard then breathes out, “Hi.”
“How are you feeling?” It’s a stupid question, but one I am obligated to ask.
The heart monitor chirps as her heart rate spikes. “No more doctors,” she whispers.
I hate this. “No, baby. Doctors are good. The doctors are helping.”
Her lip quivers, she clutches at my hand like a lifeline, and when she croaks out a tearful, “Take me home. I just want to go home. Let’s go home, Julius,” my gut coils in misery.