Page 123 of Wicked Sin

“Good.”

“Taylor—”

“She tried to kill you. Because I love you. That’s fucked up.” My voice cracks. I sound super rough, but I need to get this out. “I’m not going to pretend to be sad about that, Luke. I don’t care if the alarms go off, so you can tell me—”

The door swings open and a troop of medical professionals stroll in. “Nice to see you awake, Taylor,” says the person in front. A woman. Maybe the resident. “I’m Dr. Jackson. I did your surgery, and everything went well. You’re going to make a full recovery.”

I look at Luke. I had surgery? Full recovery from what?

He squeezes my hand. “It’s been a long few days. You needed some serious sleep, apparently.”

One of the other doctors introduces themselves as a rehab specialist and asks if they can look at my toes.

“Sure, but I need a pedicure like whoa,” I mutter.

That gets a laugh.

Hey, maybe I’m funny now. Does getting shot by your own fucking parent make you funny?

They poke my toes and ask me to push against that touch. “Good.”

“Where was I shot?”

Dr. Jackson sits on the side of my hospital bed. “The bullet went through your side. It nicked your kidney and got pretty close to your spinal column. You had a lot of swelling, and we were worried—were, past tense—about mobility.”

I shift my legs, relief coursing through me. “I’m going to be okay?”

“Full recovery.”

“Can I drink some water, then?”

She laughs. “Yes. And you can eat a little bit today. Soup, jello. Let’s ease you back into things. After you eat, we’ll get you up and try some walking.”

They all leave, and Luke just sits there. He’s looking at me strangely.

“What?”

“Nothing. I’ll get you some water.”

He disappears and returns with an oversized mug with a straw sticking out the top of it at the same time as a different nurse, a guy this time, comes in with a small bowl of jello.

I wait until he leaves to make a face at Luke. “That’s disgusting.”

“I’ll get takeout for you. What do you want?”

“A salad.”

“Soup?”

“Is this a negotiation, Detective?” My voice goes gravelly and rough on the last word, and he hands me the water. I take a long sip and close my eyes.

When I open them, he’s giving me that same, strange look again.

“You’re staring at me.”

“I like to look at you.”

“Stop it,” I whisper

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