Page 118 of Wreckage

Then—darkness.

Chapter 42

Adrian

The first thing I became aware of was warmth.

Real, encompassing warmth that didn’t feel stolen or temporary. It wasn’t the flickering heat of a dying fire in a wrecked plane. It wasn’t the weak, shared body heat between Troy, Elena, and me.

It was genuine warmth.

I was alive, and we’d been found.

That knowledge should have brought me peace. But instead, it made my stomach twist.

Because even as I drifted in and out of consciousness, even as they slowly fed me real food, tended to my wounds, and assured me I was safe?—

No one would tell me about Elena, only that she was alive. That was it. No details. No explanation.

Just—“She’s alive, Adrian.”

And that wasn’t good enough.

They told me I’d been here a week. It didn’t feel like it. Time had been nothing but a blur, slipping through my fingers as I drifted between sleep and semi-consciousness, the medication keeping me too weak to think clearly.

Today, I felt stronger.

For the first time since waking up in this unfamiliar hospital, I felt clear-headed and wanted answers.

I wanted Troy.

I wanted Elena.

I wanted to be whole again with the people I loved with every ounce of my being. These thoughts circled through my mind, making me antsy to talk to someone and finally get somewhere. If Elena was here, I wanted to see her. I wanted to see Troy. Sleeping alone in this fucking bed wasn’t doing it for me. I needed them like I needed my next breath.

The door opened, and my dad walked in, his expression weary but relieved.

I shifted in bed, pushing myself up. My body was still sore and aching, weaker than I wanted it to be, but my mind was sharp.

“Dad,” I murmured, my throat dry and my voice hoarse.

He smiled and came to sit beside me, pressing a firm hand to my shoulder, squeezing softly.

“How are you feeling?” he asked gently.

I swallowed against the lump in my throat, ignoring the ache in my chest. “How’s Troy?”

His expression darkened slightly, but not in a way that made me panic.

“He’s in surgery,” he admitted.

My heart dropped. “What? Why?”

“He hurt his knee. They’re repairing the damage now.”

I cursed, dragging a hand down my face, frustration twisting in my gut. Of course, Troy had hurt himself. Of course, he’d pushed too hard. He always did. I didn’t like that information had been kept from me, though.

My dad sighed, glancing away before looking back at me. His face was lined with exhaustion and something deeper—something raw.

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