Page 81 of Rage's Heart

My eyelids felt like they were made of lead, but somehow, I managed to pry them open.

The light was blinding at first, everything a painful blur. Blinking rapidly, I struggled to focus on the man beside my bed. He was slumped forward in a chair, his head bowed, clutching my hand like it was a lifeline. His dark hair was disheveled, as though he’d been running his fingers through it repeatedly, and his t-shirt was wrinkled, like he’d been wearing it for days.

My fingers flexed again, more deliberately this time.

His head shot up, bloodshot eyes locking with mine.

For a moment, he just stared, like he was afraid I might vanish if he looked away.

“Thank fuck,” he breathed, surging forward to cup my face in his trembling hands. “Oh, god. Thank fuck.”

I opened my mouth to tell him that I was okay, but nothing came out but a pain filled groan as my body registered the discomfort being unconscious had hidden.

A deep, burning ache shot through my side and chest and intensified with every breath I took.

Rage’s eyes went wide when he realized what was happening. He reached for the call button at my hip and pressed the big red button in the middle.

“Hurts,” I rasped, each syllable like broken glass in my throat.

“I know, baby,” he murmured, smoothing my hair back from my forehead. “Someone will come. Just hold on.”

The door swung open, and a nurse in blue scrubs rushed in. Her eyes lit up when she saw me awake. “Well, hello there,” she said, moving to check the machines beside my bed. “You’ve had quite a lot of people worried about you.”

She pressed some buttons on the machine, and almost immediately, the sharp edges of the pain softened.

“That should help,” she said, making some notes on a tablet before looking up and smiling softly. “I’ll let your doctor know that you’re awake.”

After she left, I turned my head toward Rage, taking in the dark circles under his eyes, the stubble that had grown well past his usual neat beard.

“What happened?” My voice was barely audible. “Why am I here?”

A shadow passed over his face, something dark and pained flickering in his eyes. He hesitated, his thumb stroking over the back of my hand.

“You don’t remember?”

I tried to think back, but my memories felt fragmented. I remembered finishing my shift, being tired, walking to the parking garage... then nothing but disjointed flashes. “Not really. I remember leaving work…”

Rage took a deep breath, his jaw tightening. “You were in the parking garage. Your tire was flat.”

As he spoke, hazy images coalesced. The flat tire. The tire iron in my hand. Then...

“Chad,” I whispered, cold fear washing over me as the missing pieces of memory clicked into place. His wild eyes. The smell of alcohol clinging to him. The gun he’d pulled and aimed right at me.

“Yeah,” Rage confirmed, his voice hardening. “He was there. Waiting for you.”

“He shot me.” The words came out flat, almost disbelieving.

I glanced down at my body, seeing the hospital gown, the IV lines, the evidence of what had been done to me. “I—I can’t believe he actually shot me.”

“Twice,” Rage said, the word coming out like it physically hurt him to say it. “Once in your side, once in your chest. The first bullet missed anything vital. The second…” His voice faltered. “The second nicked your lung. You lost a lot of blood.”

My hand instinctively moved to my chest, feeling the thick bandages beneath the hospital gown.

“If your co-worker hadn’t found you when she did…” Rage trailed off, unable to finish. “She used your phone to call me. I’ve never been so fucking scared in my life.”

The raw emotion in his voice made my heart ache. I squeezed his hand, needing him to know I was here, that I was still alive.

“How long have I been here?” I asked.

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