Page 128 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
Stepping into the hallway, I'm already mapping the best route from medical to the parking garage, weighing potential vulnerabilities, contingencies for every scenario. My movementsare mechanical, efficient, but my attention keeps pulling back toward her room, toward her pale form on that bed.
My bedroom has become a medical recovery space. The place where my weapons once hung now supports IV bags and monitoring equipment. My carefully made bed now holds Vanessa, pale and fragile against the dark sheets.
The steady beep of the heart monitor marks time like a metronome. I've positioned three separate screens showing her vitals along the wall where my rifle case used to stand.
The supplies sit in perfect order: medicine bottles arranged in sequence with timestamps marked in seconds, a navy logbook tracking every drop of water that passes her lips with the same exactness I apply to bullet trajectories.
The soft rustle of sheets draws my attention. Vanessa's eyelids flutter, her breathing becoming irregular. I'm at her side instantly, my hand finding hers.
"Where...?" Her voice is barely a whisper, her dark eyes unfocused and wild with fear. "I can't… my head… everything's so slow..."
"Listen to my voice. Count your breaths with me." I keep my tone steady, my thumb making small circles on her palm. "In, two, three. Out, two, three."
Her pupils dilate with panic. Her face shows the struggle—that brilliant mind of hers, normally operating faster than a bullet leaves my rifle, now bogged down in thick mental fog. For someone whose thoughts normally move quicker than anyone else's, this mental slowness must be terrifying.
"My thoughts… they won't…" She struggles to form the words, fingers twitching in mine.
"I know, little bunny. The medication is slowing everything down. It's temporary." I check the digital readout on the nearest monitor, tracking the half-life of the sedatives in her system.
Miguel steps closer, checking the IV line. His eyebrows rise as he watches me stroke Vanessa's hair back from her forehead.
"Her hydration looks good. Last dose of seizure meds was at six this morning, about an hour and a half ago," I inform him without taking my eyes off Vanessa.
He nods, making a note in her chart. "You're doing great, sis. Better than expected."
Vanessa's eyes drift toward his voice, recognition flickering briefly before panic sets in again. "Can't think... can't think..."
"Count with me," my voice firm but gentle. "One, two, three..."
She follows weakly, her breathing gradually steadying as she focuses on the simple task. Relief floods my system as her vitals stabilize on the monitors.
Miguel watches our interaction, his professional demeanor softening. "I'm impressed. You've got the touch with her."
I don't respond. My attention remains entirely on Vanessa as she drifts back toward sleep, her fingers still intertwined with mine.
"I'll be back in two hours." Miguel moves toward the door, then pauses. His hand squeezes my shoulder in a gesture of understanding.
My muscles tense reflexively at the unexpected contact. I hold perfectly still, uncomfortable with the casual physical touch, yet somehow understanding the intent behind it.
The hours pass in careful observation. Checking vitals, adjusting her position, ensuring she stays hydrated. By afternoon, Vanessa's color has improved slightly, and her breathing has steadied into a more natural rhythm.
"Think you're ready to try the living room?" I ask when she stirs more alertly.
She nods weakly, and I help her sit up slowly, watching for any signs of dizziness.
The afternoon light shifts through my windows as I help Vanessa to the living room, my arm steady around her waist. Her body feels hollow, like she's lost substance during her illness.
My living space has been transformed. Blankets and pillows disrupt my usually organized furniture, medical supplies arranged on the coffee table.
"I can walk," she insists, but her knees buckle slightly.
I tighten my grip. "You can. But you won't."
She doesn't argue further, which tells me exactly how weak she still feels. I ease her onto the sofa, where I've created a nest of blankets. Everything is positioned for her comfort. Pillows at the best angles for spinal support, water and medicine within reach, blankets folded to provide warmth without blocking movement.
"The couch looks different," Vanessa mumbles, settling against the pillows.
"It's still the same couch." I hand her a cup of broth, watching as her fingers tremble around it.
