Page 63 of The Kiss of Deception

“Zoe, I—” His throat works at great cost, his face pale like the swallow drained all color. “It’s me. Miles. I—”

Something is very wrong with me. I don't know what possesses me to consider this a good time to mess with him, but I can’t stop myself.

My head seems to have taken a hit—a strong one, by the feel of it—but not hard enough to make me forget all the times he’s messed with me. I’m a firm believer of reciprocity, I won’t squander an opportunity to even the scales.

“Oh. Didn’t recognize you without the obnoxious smile. My bad.”

The deep lines between his pinched eyes inform me he doesn't find my little prank amusing, but relief is what filters through his curse. “Goddamn, Zoe. Not funny!”

A burst of laughter escapes me. Unfortunately, karma is a bigger bitch than I am.

“Ow-ow-oww!” I whine, hands flying to my skull to recognize a bandage on my temple. “My head.”

Then, a sharp sting brings my attention to my hand. I wince, noticing the IV that clasps the back of my hand. It feels like the ceilings crashed, my house of cards collapsing. Everything hurts, from my head to my ass.

Miles looks lost, on his feet in an instant, bending to inspect me but thinking better of it and rushing for the exit instead. “I’m gonna get the doctor, love. Don’t move.”

I have to laugh again, this time containing myself. How can I move when I’m tangled in a web of cables and wires, connecting me to a couple of medical monitors and IV fluid bags? Not to mention all the sore spots in my body, and the numbness that renders my limbs useless.

How long have I been lying in a hospital bed?

I plaster my polite smile when Dr. Louisa Chen, as per her lab coat, enters the room scarce minutes later, followed by a nurse with a friendly—albeit—tired face and a very swollen pregnant tummy under blue scrubs.

“Good to see you awake, honey,” Nurse Jada introduces herself. “Prince Charming over there was losing his mind thinking he lost his miraculous healing powers. Looking at your eyes now, I understand why he was so desperate to see them open.”

Unsure how to respond to her humor, I focus on her working hands.

The doctor conducts a series of neurological exams as she questions me. What day is today (Monday), who’s the President (a war criminal). Her professional inflection makes me feel like I’m taking a test, and the thought of not acing it bothers me too much for someone who lies in a hospital bed after getting knocked out by a gun girl.

When I complain about the incessant throb in my skull, Nurse Jada adjusts the drip of the IV bag, announcing with a wink that she’s my go-to girl for giving me the goods.

I let my gaze explore the room as they continue their work. It resembles any regular room I’ve seen in movies—which is in tune with how the whole situation feels.

Surreal.

Behind me, walls are decorated with medical equipment. On each side, there are windows. On the left, the blinds obstruct the hospital corridor. On the right, Boston lives on as if nothing is wrong. As if my life hadn’t tiptoed the finest line.

I don’t know I’m searching for something until it lands on Miles.

Somber, he stands outside the room, phone to an ear, gray eyes glued to me, following Dr. Chen’s every minimal movement like a hawk. Once she’s satisfied with my performance on her thorough examinations, she types her notes as she informs me of my status.

I suffered a traumatic injury, five surgical sutures required to close the face laceration to the corner above my left eyebrow. The scans performed while I was unconscious showed no signals of damage to brain tissue.

I don’t think I’d grasped the severity of the situation until the term brain damage entered the conversation.

In the end, blood loss was the major concern, the hemorrhage from the cut uncommonly profuse—all under control now. Still, Dr. Chen isn’t ready to sign my discharge, deciding to keep me for a period of observation overnight to monitor any new symptoms—a mere precautionary measure, she assures, since she doesn’t anticipate complications.

She’ll be hearing no argument from me in that department. I’m not aching to go home anyway—I doubt I’ll be for a while.

She leaves with strict recommendations for rest, no white screens, or efforts, or big emotions.

Alone again, Miles makes his way to the same navy leather armchair, eyes on me as his hand searches for mine. They become as one when his fingers entwine with mine of their own volition, as though they’ve done this dance hundreds of times before.

“I called Toby. I know you wouldn’t want to worry him, but he had to know. Your mother, too. They’re on their way.”

I keep my gaze at where we’re linked, as I nod with gratitude in the semblance of a smile. With his free hand, he painstakingly tucks a rogue curl behind my ear, careful of the bandage.

“Who did this, Zoe?” Pain filters through the rough cracks of his voice, like he’s cracking in half too. My heart does a thump on the monitor. “Who did this to you?”

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