Page 126 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
A small smile crosses her lips. "The situation. Right." She looks around the medical room, taking in the monitors, the IV stand. "How long have I been here?"
"Over three days," Miguel answers. "You were unconscious for the first twenty-six hours. Since then, it's been recovery with some complications."
Her face scrunches in concentration. "I remember waking up. You were both here. Remy too." She pauses, thinking. "But after that... fragments. Like trying to remember a dream."
"That's normal," Miguel assures her. "The episodes affect short-term memory formation. But they're getting milder, less frequent."
She nods, then suddenly grips the bed rail as her expression changes. Her features blur with bewilderment, and she fights to concentrate.
"The code," she whispers, panic creeping into her voice. "Someone changed the encryption. They're in the system."
Fuck. Another episode.
Miguel moves to her other side. "Vanessa, look at me. There's no code. You're in the medical wing, recovering."
But she's already lost, her brilliant mind caught in neural static. Her gaze darts around the room, tracking threats that exist only in the misfiring pathways of her poisoned brain.
"They know about the files," she says, reaching out blindly. "Have to... have to secure the servers."
I catch her hand before she can pull at the IV lines. "Focus on my voice. You're safe."
For ninety-three seconds, she stares through us like we're ghosts. Then, gradually, awareness returns to her dark eyes.
"Asher?" My name sounds fragile coming from her lips.
"Right here."
She blinks, looking between Miguel and me with growing clarity. "Did I... was that another episode?"
Miguel nods. "But shorter than the previous ones. Under two minutes."
The fear that crosses her face cuts straight through me. "What if they don't stop? What if my brain doesn't heal properly?"
Miguel starts to answer, but I speak first.
"Then we'll figure it out." The words come out rougher than intended. "But you're getting better. Measurably better."
Her brilliant eyes scan my features. "You look exhausted. When did you last really sleep?"
"Sleep's overrated."
"Asher." Her fingers curl around mine, squeezing with more strength than she's shown since this started. "How long have you been here?"
I should deflect. Change the subject. Maintain the professional distance I've cultivated for years. But her direct gaze strips away defenses I didn't know I still had.
"Someone had to monitor your vitals."
"The machines do that."
"Machines fail."
She's quiet for a long moment, and I can see her processing not just my words but everything else, too. My appearance, the tablet full of her vital signs, the chair positioned for optimal monitoring angles.
When she speaks again, her voice is softer. "You're terrified."
The observation hits like a precision shot—accurate, devastating, impossible to dodge. I want to deny it, to retreat behind analytical detachment where emotions can't compromise judgment.
But watching her fight this poison, watching her mind fragment and rebuild itself while I stood powerless to fix it...
