Page 162 of Mr. Wicked

“Hi.”

One word was all I heard.

I blinked.

Hard.

And a face came into focus.

Eyes that were the most beautiful shade of green.

A sharp nose, thick lips.

A beard that I remembered.

That I’d run my fingers through so many times before.

I wanted to respond.

I tried to peel my lips apart.

But they were dry, like they’d been cemented shut.

It took every bit of strength I had to separate them. And once I broke that thick seal, my tongue felt like lead. “Grayson ...”

“Shhh.” He was close. Enough so that I could smell his cologne. A citrus that was so crisp and clean, I felt like I was back in the clouds again. “You don’t have to talk. Save your energy. I’m right here. I’m not leaving your side.” Something tightened its hold on my hand, and I realized it was his fingers gripping me. “You’re okay.”

Okay?

Why wouldn’t I be okay?

Why does it feel like something is extremely wrong?

Why do I hurt?

Where am I?

I glanced up and there was a long fluorescent light above my head. Walls that were pale, almost sickly colored. A door partially open with just enough light inside that I could make out a toilet and sink.

And there was beeping, a noise so loud it made the aches pound.

I turned my head to look at my side, each inch like a clock’s second hand, the gears in my neck clicking as though they were ungreased.

But it brought me to the source of the beeping, which was a monitor that showed different lines and numbers.

And on the other side, a stand with several IV bags.

“You’re in the hospital, Jovana.”

My tongue was too heavy.

But my eyes widened. My chest, as tight as it was, began to rise.

“You’re okay.”

Okay.

There was that word again.

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