Page 154 of Stricken

I'd weather a thousand tempests for him. I know I would as long as he comes back to me.

But for now, I'm waiting, surrounded by the smell of antiseptic and sounds of the medical equipment. Each beep and whir are a reminder of the fragile boundary between life and death I so desperately want to control. I just don't know how. Don't know what more I can do to make him hear me, to make him realize I'm here waiting for him to wake up.

My phone vibrates insistently, Costa's name flashing on the screen. I silence it without a second glance. He means well, but his concerns are trivial compared to the gravity of this vigil. Let the suits wait, let the empire teeter on its foundations. None of it matters, not when Vlad is hovering between worlds, his existence reduced to the dance of lines on a monitor.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The rhythm—steady, faithful—suddenly stumbles into urgency.

A door swings open with a soft thud, footsteps approach, murmured exchanges fill the room.

I jolt awake, dragged from my sleep by the noise.

No, it's not a dream

Figures cluster near Vlad's bed. I blink in an attempt to clear my vision.

My heart lodges itself high in my throat, pushing dread through my veins.

"Get Dr. Stein," a female voice calls.

I rise up from my chair, needing to see what's going on, but immediately get shot down by another nurse. "It's best you step out of the room for now, Mr. Morelli." She hustles me toward the door.

I'm terrified. I don't know what's going on but as a small hand nudges me into the hallway, I catch a glance of him—Vlad. It's just a fraction of a second, his eyes confused but open.

Fuck.

Relief washes over me. I lean against the wall and watch a whirlwind of scrubs and stethoscopes moving past me and into the room. I pull out my phone and dial Ivan's number. "He's awake. Get here now." My voice is steady, but my heart races beneath the veneer of calm.

All I can do is wait. Wait and let the medical staff do their job. The door would open occasionally and a person would leave and come back later. And during those moments, when I look inside, I see nurses and doctors swarm the bed, checking vitals, shining lights, asking questions. They speak in medical jargon, a foreign language of numbers and acronyms, that floats over to me in fragments.

I don't understand most of it, but my heart suddenly swells.

Eventually, the neurological tests conclude, and everyone except one nurse file out.

"How is he?" I corner Dr. Stein just outside the room, needing to know if there are things I better be aware of in advance. "Can I see him now?"

Dr. Stein pauses mid-step, turning to me. "He's a very lucky man." His voice has the calm rhythm of soft jazz in an empty coffee shop at midnight, soothing yet tired. "Disoriented and weak for a bit, he'll be—but his mind is all there. No loss of cognitive function was detected."

"Yes. But I wouldn't overwhelm him too much." And then he's walking away.

I linger in the hallway, listening to the steady beep in the room. It feels almost surreal after all this time. Finally, with a deep breath, I yank the door open and step inside.

Vlad's eyes meet mine. Recognition sparkles in them.

I drink in the sight of him, slim and pale and vulnerable. My fingers twitch with the urge to touch him, to reassure myself that this isn't just another cruel dream.

"Vlad," I whisper, simply wanting to say his name out loud, wanting to be certain this is real, he is real.

He frowns. A kaleidoscope of emotions plays across his face—confusion, relief, fear, and something deeper, something primal. I don't even think he understands it himself yet but I do. I always did. It's that one thing that drew me to him that night in California.

I cross the room and pull up a chair to his bedside, then settle down. I can't find words to say all I need to say. Instead, I rest my hand gently atop of his, a lifeline in this sea of uncertainty.

"Nico..." His voice is raspy, each syllable a struggle from misuse. "What... are you... doing here?"

I open my mouth to respond, but he grips my hand with surprising strength, his eyes wide and wild. "You can't... be here. He'll... kill you."

The heart monitor spikes, a staccato rhythm of panic. I squeeze his hand in response, my thumb tracing soothing circles on his skin. "Shh, Vlad. It's okay."

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