Page 8 of White Raven
“Why, Wren?”
“I don’t know how to feel!” Wren exploded, tears free-falling down both sides of her face. “I don’t know why but, I’m—I’m soangry!” The last word was a grit through clenched teeth, and a sharp exhale. “I’m not angry with Brent. For once, this isn’t his fucking fault, I’m just—I’m enraged! Every time I think about that gun going off, I wish I could have been the one to blast that motherfucker into Hell. Every time I see my face, I just want to see his explode all over again. He’s robbed me of every sense of security. He forced me to piss all over myself. He starved me, he fucking beat me. And then he wanted to play soft when he realized he shot his own son? Fuck him. Brent deserves something for what he did for me…but it isn’t me, Sarah.”
“Why the hell would you think that? You think you’re unworthy of him because of what happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wren…that fault doesn’t belong to either one of you. Conrad Stratford got what he deserved. He was a monster, and he isdead. Do you understand? You’re not undeserving of whatever Brent feels for you, just because he took a bullet from a bad man. He’s known what Conrad was long before the piece of shit ever took you. If you’re holding back because you’re not sure about your feelingsbeforethis happened, then fine. But if you’re holding back because you don’t think you deserve him, you’re out of your mind, chick.” Wren met eyes with her, and theyboth took another drag. “That old fuck will never hurt another soul, ever again. You’resafe. You’re safe, and you’re gonna get through it. You both will.”
Safe.
Nothing felt safe anymore. Not this room, not this blanket…not this city. This skin. Wren blew smoke and daydreamed about the way her body froze in fear but reacted wholly on its own when that thug came after her in the busy street. The way she’d emptied a gun into him and dropped him like a stone, and still didn’t ever feelsafe. People were evil. People couldn’t be trusted. Somebody was always going to go after someone else for their own gain, or for some kind of sick satisfaction. Innocent people would always lose their lives, no matter what good deeds they’d done, or what family waited for them at home. Those girls that just happened to look like Sarah. Murdered. That kid that never made it back home to his family after wandering into a den full of vampires…he was just a child. Nobody was safe. Nobody cared about the sanctity of life.
“I don’t wanna get through it right now. I don’t wanna pretend it's safe out there. Right now, I just wanna sleep. I want to sleep and forget it. I wanna swallow down something that’s gonna put me on my ass and blot out this stain on my life for a little while. I just wanna be alone.”
Sarah’s lips pursed, but she nodded gently, squeezing Wren’s hand. “I get it. Just don’t forget that we’re here. I’m here. I love you, and when you’re ready, I’ll still be here. Okay?”
“I know you will. I love you too…just—I need a little time, Sarah.”
She didn’t linger. For a second, Wren considered she might be feeling the same kind of guilt she’d weathered after not going with her when she’d left the club and was attacked. That Conrad wouldn’t have sought her out as leverage had it not been for the blood she couldn’t help but have. It wasn’tSarah’s fault. She knew that. Just as it hadn’t been anyone but Athan’s fault that he had put himself in a position he knew better than to be in when his hunger had been beyond his control that night. Nevertheless, she still needed this distance between herself and the ones she knew were her friends. However good their intentions were. Wren heard the door lock as she remained on her bed, and once alone, she covered her face with both hands and broke.
The sobs were heavy. Raw. The anger and the hurt swelled inside like one of those parasites that had latched onto a dog’s ear so long it could combust with the life it sucked from its host. That’s exactly what it felt like as it erupted from her. Her life. Everything she thought she knew about it. It was unfair. All of this was unfair. Wren took a heaving breath and turned her body, thrusting an arm out and swinging it until the lamp next to her bed went flying across the floor, shattering the bulb and darkening the room back to its artificial night.
“The nation is still in a state of shock following the death of Senator Conrad Stratford, who was said to have been fatally shot at his Massachusetts residence this week after taking part in an alleged kidnapping and botched murder plot. Boston police have given very little information regarding the situation, as it continues to develop. Supporters, and campaign participants are still reeling from the loss, and the magnitude of disbelief and questions surrounding the tragedy. Funeral services or memorial preparations are still unannounced following the shocking events, as it is also confirmed that the senator critically injured his only son, Boston’s top legalcounsel, Brent Stratford, in the incident. He is said to be still recovering from his injuries at—”
“Good morning…Mr. Stratford?” A tired voice spoke from the open doorway as Brent muted the television on the wall. “I don’t know if you remember me, I’m Dr. Ambrose? Your surgeon?” She seemed fairly young, her dark brown hair coiled into a knot behind her neck, and thin-rimmed glasses sitting on the bridge of her nose. A pretty woman, Brent thought, as he raised his face towards her. At one point, she likely would have been his type, but since meeting Sarah, and obviously having mixed feelings when it came to Wren Vintorri, he found himself questioning what exactly his type was anymore. Brent stretched a hand toward her over the few stacks of paper in his lap and strewn across his hospital bed.
“Morning. Merry Christmas.” They shook hands.
“Same to you, sir. Your grip seems firm. Your skin looks flush. You seem…strangely well, considering your state when I last saw you.” She wrapped both arms around a clipboard at her chest and studied him warily.
“I feel fine,” Brent said, clicking a pen and dropping it onto a stack of paper.
“I understand you’ve been requesting some solid food.”
He pressed a button on the bed to raise the back into a sharper incline. “Yeah, they told me the meal restrictions would have to be approved by the doctor, following a scan I had late last night. I’m starving. Chicken broth isn’t gonna cut it.”
Dr. Ambrose pressed her mouth into a tight line. “I understand, and I—I’ve reviewed those scans. I apologize for the hour in which they took you back, but the wait for those scans is ridiculous. It was the soonest we could get.”
“So…can I eat? Or?”
She sighed deeply, pressing her glasses up and scooting a chair close to his bedside. “Do you mind if I sit?”
“Not at all.”
She lowered herself into her chair and sighed again as she sat the clipboard into her lap. “I don’t really know how to say this, Mr. Stratford, and I’ll be honest…it’s kind of embarrassing.”
Brent leaned back into the bed. “Okay?”
She took another long pause, staring at him. Finally, she removed her glasses and put them down on top of the clipboard. “When you were brought to the hospital, the situation was critical. It took several hours for me to get that bullet out of your body, and the outer tissue of your stomach and part of your large intestine were severely damaged. You had some intense internal bleeding, and honestly…you were already very lucky that none of your vital organs were compromised in your attack.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Yeah…um,” she shifted in her chair. “You were in bad shape, Mr. Stratford. I was confident, and I had no intention of letting you die on my table, but you also suffered substantial blood loss, and a time or two…we thought you were close to hypovolemic shock.”
Brent swallowed audibly, and so did she. “I’m not following what’s embarrassing about you saving my life, doctor. I do very much appreciate it.”
“It’s my pleasure, it’s just that…” she trailed off, scratching her head. Brent raised a brow at her. “I’m sorry. I reviewed your scans, and I’m baffled. I know what I saw. I had my hands inside your body, and I was just so confused when I got word that you were requesting solid food and wheeling yourself around the halls. You were very close to death, Mr. Stratford, and…aside from some very light scar tissue, somehow already growing on the damaged tissue, and the notes from your chart indicating that your gunshot wound is mostly closed…I—I just don’t understand how in the world it’s possible, sir. It’s almost as if it never happened.”
