Page 143 of Salvatore

I deserve a double-point score for the trauma trifecta.

“I’ll help you get under the covers.” He reaches for the quilt.

“I want to freshen up first.” I shuffle sideways, gaining distance between us. “I have to get out of this gown and wash off the lingering antiseptic.”

“I’ll carry you.” He attempts to scoop me up again.

“No.” I hold up a hand, keeping him at bay. “I’m allowed to move. Didn’t the doctor say?—”

“You can walk later.”

I sigh, so goddamn wrecked, worn to my marrow, and fraying at the edges. “I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the hormonal tendencies of pregnant women, Sally, but standing in my way doesn’t bode well for you.”

Predatory eyes meet mine, the subtle warning not to taunt him coming through loud and clear. “Are you sure you don’t need help?”

I scrunch my nose, appreciating his stupid, surly kindness, and carefully move around him. “I’m okay. The local anesthetic is still working its magic. I can’t feel a thing.” I hobble to the adjoining bathroom, the heat of his gaze scorching the back ofmy neck while a similar sensation takes over my eyes. “I’ll yell down the hall if I need anything.”

I don’t look back before closing the door behind me, then have to fight tooth and nail not to burst into uncontrollable tears as soon as I’m alone.

I stumble to the vanity, gripping the edge in shaky hands while I squeeze my eyes shut.

I almost died last night. My body has been invaded by a tiny tenant. And the father of said uterus inhabitant is the son to the woman who tried to kill me,andthe enemy to the man who brought me into this world.

I sniff against the inundation of stupid hormones, my week of on-again-off-again tears making so much more sense now. Problem is, the pressure building in my chest doesn’t feel like a casual tear-and-sniff situation. What’s approaching is incoherent sobs.

I open my eyes to the bleak woman reflected in the mirror, her brown irises swimming in moisture, her lower lip trembling.

How did I get here? In this mess? Feeling these feelings?

I glare, attempting to intimidate the frailty under control.

I’ll figure something out. I always do.

“You’ve got this,” I whisper.

But I don’t. I’ve got nothing. Not a single trace of anything.

I’m poised on the brink of saying goodbye to my Baltimore life—to Allison and Olivia, to my job and my apartment.

Pain builds in my lungs, the agony squeezing and stabbing.

I suck in a shuddering inhale, the threat of meltdown that much closer.

“Don’t do it.” I glower at the woman in the mirror, the weak one, the pathetic fool.

I yank at the ties on my gown, pulling and tugging until the material slides to the floor.

My breaths still at the state of my naked body, my cotton panties and the crisp white bandages a sordid patchwork in a sea of pink antiseptic watercolor.

Scratches mark my shoulder. My abdomen is swollen and distended.

I’m a mottled, macabre art piece I refuse to look away from, punishing myself with the blurring visual as my nose tingles.

I snatch at the vanity drawers and grab a washcloth, slightly dampening it under the faucet before adding a pump of hand soap. I wipe at my body, first my forearm, then around the bandages on my hip, my movements getting harder, faster.

The more I fight the impending collapse of composure, the harder I clean, scrubbing and scouring my skin until it changes from antiseptic pink to raw and worrying red.

If only I wasn’t drowning in local anesthetic I could focus on the physical pain instead of all the emotional. But those internal girlie feels keep yapping at me like rabid dogs, their sharp teeth snapping, their dedication to downfall resolute.

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