Page 16 of Tormented Heir

“Can you stop the ringing?” I ask.

She nods. “I think we can get to a place where we can help, and this is early days. We may see some improvement even without intervention.”

“My military career is over, though?” I ask.

She dips her head. “You won’t be going back for a while, even if the hearing issue resolves.” She indicates my leg.

“We will be looking at surgical options,” the second doctor states. “Either way, with or without surgery, we believe you’re looking at four-to-six-months recovery before you can fully load on that knee.”

Fucking perfect.

“Tendon damage is always a long road.” The surgeon offers me the same small smile. “You’ll have the best rehab available.”

Thanks to my stepfather. Jacob is paying for the sort of medical care celebrities, politicians, and tech bros receive. I will be in his debt forever.

“You were lucky,” the hearing doctor says. “It could have?—”

I narrow my eyes and seek out her small name badge. “Lucky, Dr. Radisson?”

“I’m sorry, bad choice of words. What I was trying to say is because the blast was in an open space, the damage to your hearing is less than we’d expect if it had occurred in a building, or, say, a vehicle.”

“What percentage of hearing loss do you think I’m looking at?”

She sighs. “Hard to say at this stage. And we measure it in?—”

I hold my hand up, interrupting her again. I’m being a dick, but I’m in pain, and the fucking wind howling in my ear is driving me nuts. I want these medics with their sympathy and their small smiles gone.

“In percentages, what are we looking at?”

“I’d say a forty to fifty percent hearing loss in your left ear, but more at first. Small, possibly negligible loss in the right ear.”

“Forever?”

“Yes. But as I say, it is early days.”

“My leg?” I turn to the surgeon.

He holds his clipboard to his chest. “I think full recovery is possible. You’ll have a scar, maybe the odd twinge. We can get you back to fighting fitness, though.”

I clench my fists.

“Sorry, turn of phrase.” He clears his throat. “You can be back to a full range of motion and weight bearing within six months, with surgery and intensive physical therapy.”

The wound in my side is itching, and I glance at that.

“Your side was operated on out there. They did it during the emergency evacuation. Needed to remove the shrapnel and stem the bleeding. We’ve looked at it, and it was a good job. If not the neatest.” His small, toothy smile appears again, annoying the shit out of me. “If it bothers you, we can have a plastic surgeon take a look.”

I nod. “Okay. Thank you both for your honesty.”

“We’ll let you rest,” Dr. Radisson says.

I give them another nod, and then they’re gone, leaving me alone. The blanket weight of depression settles around me. Months of rehab and possibly a lifetime of tinnitus. Mickles is dead. A poor kid is dead. Blown to smithereens. I’m not out there finding those motherfuckers who strapped that kid in dynamite and turned him into a human firework. I doubt I’ll be doing that again, but someone needs to pay.

All that lives and breathes beneath my skin is a simmering rage, the need for revenge thwarted and channeled into something more primal. Raw, unadulterated anger. At the world. Myself. Every-fucking-thing.

The beast is well and truly alive, and I don’t know if I can control him anymore.

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