Page 97 of Savage Don's Captive

“Can you tell me your name?”

Alessa.

I want to sayAlessandra Colette Russo, but nothing comes out. Just a groan. I turn my head away from the light.

“Pupils reactive,” someone says. I can’t tell if it’s a man or woman. “But she’s in shock.”

Hands grab me. Move me. Hurt me. Machines beep. Voices bark orders. My eyes blur, but I see silhouettes hovering.

Where’s Dominic? Wasn’t I in his car? Did he leave me? No. I need to stay conscious. If I black out, I might not wake up. Breathe. Maybe then I’ll see where I am. Maybe then I’ll understand.

Someone rolls me onto my side. Agonizing pain shoots through me, stealing my breath. A snip cuts through the haze, followed by cool air as scissors slice through my top. Then—blinding, searing pain.

A raw, ragged scream rips from my throat. The sound doesn’t even feel like mine. Strangled. Broken.

Stop.

God, make it stop.

Please.

Then the world tilts. The voices fade.

Nothing.

But I fight. The darknesswantsme. Hungers for me. Pulls me under. But I’m not ready.

“Fight, Alessa. Always fight.”

My mother’s voice, distant yet firm. I claw my way through the suffocating blackness, each inch forward costing me everything. My lungs burn. My mind fractures. But beyond this void, Dominic waits. That’s enough. That’s worth fighting for.

Voices. Familiar but distant. Pulling me back.

“...She hasn’t been at the hospital all day. That doesn’t sound alarming to you?”

“Gabriella’s a big girl with a medical degree, Luca. She doesn’t need your permission to take a day off.”

“I know, but Gabriella never just—”

A soft rasp escapes me as I turn my head toward the voices. Slow, foggy thought creeps in.

I’m alive.

Two figures to my right. Blurred. Unfocused. The steady beep of machines fills my ears. Through the window, the sky melts into indigo and violet. City lights flicker to life.

“Alessa.”

Déjà vu. Another hospital. Another brush with death. Machines beeping, my body aching.

“Luca, get the doctor.”

My limbs feel weighted, like there’s a wrecking ball pressing on my stomach. The gunshot wound is muted but present, dulled by IV painkillers. I try to move, but agony surges through me.

“Try not to move,” Dominic orders, turning on the light. I squint, but the brightness is nothing compared to the pain.

“How do you feel?”

“Like shit.”

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