Page 5 of Unforgettable

My breath hisses out from my clenched teeth. Holy shit, that hurts! Footsteps rush over to where I’m lying, and gentle fingers smooth my hair away from my face. “It’s okay, you’re okay.” I can’t place who the voice belongs to, but it makes my heart skip a beat. His fingers tenderly run over my forehead and cheek, stroking me slowly and softly, soothing me back into the darkness.

The next time I wake up, the pain hits me immediately. The horrors of what Damon did to me come flooding back. Opening my eyes, I have to blink several times for the blurriness to fade so I can take in my surroundings. The room looks like a cross between a luxury hotel suite and a hospital room. The bed I’m on is much more comfortable than any hospital bed I’ve ever seen.

There are several seating areas around the room, no hard-plastic chairs, or uncomfortable chair-bed contraptions like you see in hospitals. These are all extremely plush and would look right at home in someone’s living room. There’s a flat-screen TV mounted to the wall at the foot of the bed. From the angle I’m laying at, I can only make out the bottom corner of the screen. I don’t dare move to try to see it any further.

Slowly, I turn my head to face the other side of the room and notice this side looks a lot more like a hospital room. There’s a step pedal sink and glass front cabinets showing all types of medical equipment and supplies. There are larger machines attached to the wall beside my bed. A heart monitor and some other fancy equipment that I have no clue what their purpose could be. While I’m trying to puzzle out what they could be for, I notice the IV drip bag hanging from a hook. Taking a deep breath, I follow the line it’s attached to with my eyes. By the time I get to the back of my hand, I’m practically hyperventilating.

There is a needle in my hand.

A Fucking. Needle. In. My. Hand.

Oh, God, I’m going to be sick. I’m shouting in my head as I feel the bile tickling the back of my throat. Don’t puke. Don’t puke. I calmly chant to myself. Puking means moving and heaving, and that seems like a really bad idea if the pain radiating from my body is any indication. I try to tear my eyes away from my hand, but I can’t quit staring at the offense piece of plastic that’s buried under my skin.

I’m so distracted by the fact that there is a needle in my hand, that I nearly scream when someone lightly squeezes the same hand that I am obsessing over. I hadn’t even noticed someone holding my hand. The hand in mine is large and warm, whoever owns this hand is running his thumb gently over my knuckles back and forth. The soothing touch completely distracts me from my mounting anxiety.

I flick my eyes toward the owner of the hand who has squelched my anxiety so quickly and thoroughly. My breath catches when I take him in for the first time. He is glorious. I know how that sounds, but there isn’t any other word coming to mind at the moment. He has the chair turned slightly so that he can stretch his legs out and still hold onto my hand. His head is tilted to the side, resting on the back of the chair, and his eyes are closed. He appears to be sleeping, but his thumb caressing my knuckles tells me differently.

Taking a few moments, I study him a little closer. His hair is either the darkest brown I’ve ever seen or black, I can’t tell in the dim light. His jaw looks like it’s been chiseled from granite and is covered with a little more than a five o’clock shadow, adding to his rugged good looks. His nose is perfect, and his lips are full and kissable.

I should let him know I’m conscious. Whoever this is has obviously been waiting for me to wake up. Opening my mouth to speak, I realize how very dry and sore my throat is. My voice is somewhere between a whisper and a croak. “Wh—” I start, but my voice cracks.

Just that half-formed word is enough that he instantly becomes alert. Expressive midnight blue eyes are trained on me. I swallow the tiny amount of saliva I’m able to will into existence and try speaking again, thankful my words come out a little more clearly. “Where am I?”

Not letting go of my hand, he sits up taller in the chair and brushes the hair from my forehead with his free hand. I vaguely remember someone—him, I assume—doing that the last time I woke up in agony. It’s very soothing to have my hair and face caressed like that.

It’s something my mom used to do when I was sick. The memory of my mother makes my breath catch, and I push back the emotional pain. I can’t handle it on top of the physical pain I’m feeling now. Hell, if I’m honest, I can’t handle it when I’m not in physical pain. I’ve been burying my grief for so long it’s second nature by now. He gently rubs the space between my eyebrows, smoothing out the stress lines that my memory has put there.

“You’re at the club in a recovery suite,” his voice is like warm molasses, “I brought you here after Damon threw you off the stage.” He says Damon’s name like a curse.

Without being asked, he reaches for a plastic cup from the table just beside him. He presses the bendy straw to my lips, and I take a tentative sip. The cool water is like a balm to my aching throat, and I greedily drink it down.

“Slow down, love,” he cautions. Once I’ve had my fill, he sets the cup aside. “Are you in much pain?”

My snort of laughter surprises him. “Pain doesn’t even describe what I am feeling, try agony. I think if I were to do much more than blink, I would pass out from how bad it hurts.”

Only one other time in my life have I hurt this bad, and it wasn’t my body that hurt. It was my heart. Grief bubbles up to the surfaces, and I push it back. I’m not going there. Those thoughts are even more taboo than the ones of my mother.

“I’ll get the doctor. She couldn’t give you any pain medication since we had no way to know if you were allergic or not. I’m afraid other than the salve, we haven’t been able to do much except keep you hydrated.” I cringe as I’m reminded of the IV in my hand. “Be right back,” he says before raising from the chair and striding out of the room.

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