Page 187 of BounBound By Scars

“Where… where am I?” I rasped, voice like gravel.

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she glanced down at her screen. “Do you have a next of kin we should contact?”

I blinked at her. “No. Just tell me where I am. And what day it is.”

She hesitated.

Then said, “July eighth.”

Three days.

Fuck.

I’d been unconscious for three fucking days.

My heart kicked up—panic crawling up my throat like fire.

“Don’t,” she warned, stepping forward as I tried to sit up. “You need to stay in bed—”

“I need to leave,” I bit out, already wincing as I forced myself upright. Every movement burned, but I didn’t care.

I promised her.

She must think I’m gone.

I needed to get to Amelia.

“Sir, please—just wait. You’ve been through significant trauma—”

“Who admitted me?” I interrupted, chest heaving.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I can ask. If you stop trying to rip your IV out like an idiot.”

I stared at her. “Which hospital is this?”

“NewYork-Presbyterian,” she replied.

I exhaled hard.

Brooklyn.

Thank God.

Close enough.

Close to her.

“Get me discharge papers,” I muttered, already swinging one leg off the bed.

She looked at me like I’d just announced I was planning to jump off the roof. “What?”

“I’m leaving.”

“You’renot.”

She left the room in a rush—probably for backup.

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