Page 24 of Grace of a Wolf 2
A surprised laugh escapes me. "I'm held hostage by an IV pole and a hospital gown. If I try to get out of bed, everyone's going to see my backside. I'm pretty sure I can't get into any trouble here."
Lyre snickers at my reassurance and pulls the door open. I sink deeper into my pillows, ready to enjoy some quiet.
Not even two seconds pass before her rainbow-colored head pokes back through the doorway.
"One more thing. If wolf boy returns while I'm gone—no sex in the hospital bed."
My jaw unhinges. "Excuse me?"
"In fact," she continues, stepping back into the room completely, "don't let him touch you. At all."
"Lyre, I'm hospitalized. Sex isn't on my to-do list right now."
She ignores me, stabbing a finger in my direction. "Consider the man a vampire. Bathe in garlic. Do whatever you need to, but don't let him touch you."
Heat crawls up my neck. "Are you serious right now?" It's not like I'm sex-starved. Things just kind of happened.
Her cat eyes gleam. "Your energy levels are barely above 'functioning human.' One wolfy hand on you and you'll flatline."
My lips twitch despite my embarrassment. "Where am I supposed to get garlic in a hospital?"
"I don't know. Call room service." She scowls. "Just do as I say, or I'm putting 'Fucked to death by a werewolf' on your headstone."
A laugh bursts out before I can stop it, echoing in the sterile room. "You wouldn't."
"Watch me." She flicks her rainbow hair over her shoulder. "I know a guy who does cemetery engravings."
"Of course you do." The image of some poor soul chiseling those words into granite sends me into another fit of giggles.
"I'm not joking, Grace. No touching Caine."
I snort. "Fine. No touching."
"Good girl." She shoots me finger guns before backing toward the door again. "Remember, garlic. Lots of it."
My lips twitch. "You know he's notactuallya vampire, right?"
Lyre's laugh follows her out the door.
Chapter eleven
Grace: Strange Nurse
As expected, I fall asleep quickly once Lyre's gone, dreamless and deep.
A scraping sound startles me awake.
My eyelids struggle against the weight of interrupted sleep. A figure in scrubs moves around my bed, his features indistinct thanks to the dim lighting and my own disorientation. The nurse—a man, based off his broad shoulders and overall bulky physique—unplugs my IV from the wall outlet, methodically winding the cord to rest on the metal pole.
"What's going on?" I ask, completely disoriented.
He doesn't look at me, instead tapping at a tiny vial hanging near my fluids on the IV pole.
Then he turns, pushing a button to recline my bed until it's flat. "Taking you downstairs for imaging." His voice is flat. Professional, but distant to the point of disinterest. He has a badge hanging from a lanyard around his neck, but I can't make out what it says.
"Oh, okay…" Imaging? Nobody mentioned tests. But then again, hospitals operate on their own schedule, and doctors don't always tell us what they're going to do.
Cold air hits my legs as he straightens my blanket. My bed jerks forward as he disengages the brake with his foot, the mechanical click oddly loud in the quiet room.
