Page 5 of In Death's Hands
I open my eyes again and jump a little at finding him so much closer to me. His dark eyes taking me in, unflinching. His body seems locked up, tense, and he’s still wearing the clothes I saw him in at the coffee shop. A dark grey sweater over black pants. However, my brain fixates on his grey socks. He’s not wearing any shoes. I like that. It makes him more real, less threatening despite the situation. Although my body feels strangely relaxed, refusing to read what’s happening as anything remotely close to dangerous.
Wait, I braced for an impact that never came. “I didn’t get hit.”
My memory is spotty after that. There was a shout. Maybe a strong hand on my arm? I can’t be sure; the fog is refusing to relinquish its painful hold on the last images.
“Not by a car, no.” His lips tighten in clear displeasure, and I get lost in the sight of them until his words register.
“Then by what? A bus? A bike?” I try to figure out what it could have been this time, but my body seems to be in one piece, making my theories improbable.
“I pulled you back before the car could hit you, but you tripped and hit your head on the pavement.”
Well, that explains the agony inside my skull. Catching a glimpse of sunrise beyond the windows to my right, I remember where I’m standing. “What am I doing here?”
“You only stayed conscious long enough to command ‘no hospital’, and since I don’t know where you live, I had to bring you back here.” There’s a twitch in his left eye that distracts me again, and I try to regroup. When I neither talk nor move, he frowns at me. “You can relax, Liv; I won’t hurt you.”
“I know,” my mouth says of its own volition.
His eyes widen again, and before I can figure out a way to call the words back into myself, he leaves the room.
My mind is strangely blank. I would expect a whirlwind of emotions and thoughts to prick me in their desire to burrow themselves beneath my skin, but all I feel is calm.
I guess my head is more messed up than I thought it was. I’m not as worried as I should be, clearly, but having sustained enough concussions to write a book about it, I know that since I’m not puking my guts up, a trip to the hospital is truly unnecessary.
Looking around the room some more, I replay everything in my head slowly, trying to come to terms with the fact that I just woke up in a stranger’s bed. Never mind that it feels better than my own, or that the stranger is the guy I’ve been crushing on for months.
But he’s not really a stranger, is he? At least we’re on a first-name basis. I want to laugh at myself when I realise that’s truly the only thing I know about him.
As if I summoned him, he comes back into the bedroom holding a glass of water and a pill.
“Yeah, I won’t be taking pills from a stranger.”
“But you know me.”
“No, I don’t. Not really. All I know is your first name, the fact that you order coffee at my work and never drink it. And that you live in a fancy-ass penthouse.”
“Ah.” He seems disappointed for a second, but I don’t understand why. “And that is not enough?”
“Definitely not.”
“I did save your life.” He smiles at me then. It’s quite a sight, I’ll admit. There’s even a glint in his eyes making me think he’s joking, but I don’t quite catch the joke. Feeling like I’m missing something, I move on.
“You did, and I can’t thank you enough. Really. Next coffee is on me.” I start walking to the door, but he blocks my way.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Home. Now move before I move you.”
He’s clearly fighting a smirk and I want to punch it off his too-handsome face. “I had a healer come and check on you. You have a concussion.” His jaw tightens. “She said it was mild, but I don’t understand how having a brain injury can be mild.”
I’m struck by how upset he looks, so much so that it takes a second for his words to register.
“You didwhat?”
Frowning at me, he gestures at the bed. “You’re confused. She said it could happen. You need to sit down.”
“I will not! You had a doctor come and examine me while I was asleep? Who the fuck do you think you are?” I panic at the thought of someone checking my body while I wasn’t able to control the narrative. What did they see? What did they think? Will they do anything? I feel sick. Maybe sitting isn’t such a bad idea, but fuck if I’m doing it here.
“Asleep?” He seems to be growing angry and my body reacts to it strangely. A steely feeling runs through me, causing goose bumps to appear on my arms. “You were unconscious! If I hadn’t helped you—twice, I might add—you’d be dead right now. So sit. The fuck. Down.”
