Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but let the icy fear in his veins propel him forward.
He barely let the Ford slew to a halt before he was out of it and pelting toward the Mercedes. The hood was crumpled, smoke emerging from beneath its buckled arch; he saw no sign of movement from inside. The window had cracked, but not so much that he couldn’t see the motionless form slumped over the steering wheel, dangling by the seatbelt.
The world receded into a distant hollow numbness rushing down a long tunnel. He was dimly aware of his own voice echoing in that tunnel, crying Ashton, Ashton, Ashton, but he was disconnected from his own words, his own thoughts, his own movements even as he ripped the door open and reached inside, fumbling for the release on the seatbelt. Ash tumbled out and into his arms, motionless, this small and pathetic bundle turned hollow by the absence of the bright, sweet life that made him so animated, so engaging.
Chest so tight it was ready to snap, Brand fumbled for his young Master’s collar, his throat—his pulse. Oh God, he had a pulse, he was unconscious but alive. Brand let out a harsh, aching sound of relief, ripping painfully from his throat, then made himself remember practicality. His phone in his pocket. 911, the operator crisp and professional and doing nothing to soothe him even as he gave the intersection and Ash’s condition. He barely gave her time to confirm before he let the phone fall from numb fingers so he could curl those fingers around Ash, cradling him close.
“Please,” he whispered, bowing over Ash, as if he could wrap himself around his young Master and make himself the glue to hold him together. “Ashton, my young Master…oh God, please.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ASH WOKE TO THE WORST headache he’d ever had in his life, and he’d once survived a weekend filled with enough Everclear and Jaegermeister to kill anyone else from alcohol poisoning.
His first impression was pain, throbbing in his skull and pulsing with quiet soreness throughout his entire body. His second impression was a horrible medicinal smell—a hospital smell, a hospice smell, and for a moment his lizard brain panicked that he was back in that hospice center watching his father die, and the man had never woken up at all.
But his third impression eased that fear away, when he recognized the heavy weight draped over his body.
Brand’s arm, already familiar after a few short nights.
If Brand was here, holding him, nothing could be wrong.
Even if he wasn’t quite sure where here was, until he cracked one eye open muzzily, peering past a blurry haze of pain. He was…in a hospital room? In a hospital bed, lying there surrounded by neutral blue walls and medical equipment and curtains in those weird patterns that only seemed to belong to hospital furniture and décor. Everything smelled like antiseptic and medication, except the faint, earthy scent of Brand drifting around him.
Brand…had somehow crammed himself into the hospital bed with Ashton, bulk and all, curled on his side and still fully dressed even though Ash had been stripped down to a hospital gown. Brand looked almost ready to fall off the twin-sized bed, but still he held a close grip on Ash, cradling him tight even in his sleep, lines of worry and exhaustion seamed clearly into his face. Ash’s heart skipped.
He didn’t know how he’d ended up here. All he remembered was a sudden bright flash, noise, pain, fear, then darkness.
Yet he’d woken up with Brand holding him as if he was something precious, and he didn’t know what to make of that.
A soft throat-clearing jerked his attention away from Brand. A nurse stood at his side, and he had a feeling she’d been there the entire time but had given him enough of a chance to reorient himself before startling him. She noted something down on a chart, then offered him a dry but not unpleasant smile, tucking her pen into the tight braid of her black hair. Her scrubs stood out in pale pink, stark against her deep brown skin.
“Had an interesting night, Mr. Harrington?” she said a touch sardonically. “Good to see you’re awake. Having any trouble with vision? Do you feel nauseated?”
“N—” His mouth as too dry to speak, and he coughed when he tried, only to wince as it made his entire sore body twinge. She quickly poured a paper cup of water from a pitcher at the bedside, then tipped it to his lips. He sipped gratefully, letting the cool water ease his parched mouth. “Thank you,” he managed. “No…not nauseated. My vision was a little blurry for a second, but it’s getting better.”
“All right. That’s less to worry about, then.” She nodded toward Brand. “Your boyfriend was losing his shit for a minute there, boo.”