Page 139 of False God

“I’m fine,” I announce. Louder than I mean to talk.

Everyone’s silent now, staring at me.

My eyes are fixed on the ceiling. “Can someone get Charlie?” I ask the plaster.

More silence.

“The duke?” Bash whispers to Kit.

At least, I think he means to whisper. It’s normal volume in the quiet room.

“I will!” Fran chirps.

No one moves.

“Uh, you all”—Fran gestures toward my family—“are blocking the door.”

My mom squeezes my hand one final time. “We’ll be right out in the hallway, honey.”

I nod. “Thanks.”

They file out one by one, until the room is empty, except for the buzzing that won’t quit.

I stare at the ceiling until the door reopens, and Charlie steps inside.

His throat works a couple of times as he walks toward me, crossing the small room in a couple of strides.

“Hey.” His voice is rough around the edges, the raspy way it sounds first thing in the morning.

I struggle to sit up straighter. “Hi.”

I can’t do anything about the ugly gown or the gauze on my forehead, but I can at least have decent posture.

Charlie’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens. Closes.

Obviously, he has no idea what to say to me. I was extra cold to him at the gala, mostly because the shock of seeing him from afar was nothing compared to the torture of talking to him.

He came because of business. Because Asher had invited him.

I’ve never wished it were possible to undelete a text more because I’m dying to know what he sent to me. Was that the only reason he gave?

“Wanna sit?” I pat the pale green hospital blanket.

He swallows again before he perches on the edge of the mattress, resting both elbows on his thighs. “I, um … I …” His voice trails off.

“You didn’t have to come, you know.”

But I’m glad you did, gets caught in my throat. His smell is familiar, and the scent sets off fireworks in my stomach.

I’m still a little tipsy. Reeling from the collision and the commotion that took place in the past hour. And suddenly, unexpectedly shy, like a teenager meeting her boy-band crush after a concert.

“I wanted to,” he tells me.

I raise an eyebrow.

“Well, notwantedto,” he amends. “I hate that you’re here. But I … needed to see that you were okay.”

“I’m okay. Might have an ugly Frankenstein scar on my face, but I’ll survive.”

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