Page 64 of The Shape of my Scar
She should have known better.
The next morning dragged after yet another sleepless night in the bay. Mrs. Wallace had been caterwauling about someone stealing her cat,again, and demanding they “call the school board immediately.” Faolan had tried to press her pillow over her ears with one hand with not much success. She was bone-tired. Her ribs ached, her arm throbbed and itched, and her mind was a jittery mess of dreams that ended in walls painted with blood and a voice calling her name in the dark.
The doctor had done his rounds already. He examined her healing ribs and listened to her chest before telling her he expected her to be out of there by the end of the week. He’d stopped the antibiotics and began talking discharge planning. They just needed to sort out physiotherapy arrangements, follow-up, and whatever sadist would be picking up Frank’s torch once she was home.
Frank had come by earlier to run her through her regular torture session. She’d grumbled the whole way through, especially about breakfast.
“Those eggs tasted like glue, and the toast was burnt.”
Frank only grinned. “I think we have a bit of a surprise for you this morning.”
That sixth sense she now had—the one that pinged whenever Thane was nearby—flared. She tensed but kept her eyes pointed stubbornly at the window.
Don’t turn. Don’t look.
Too late.
Frank patted her leg with his clipboard. “I’ll be back in a bit. You two…talk.”
She looked up just as Thane stepped in through the ward doors and approached her bed. He moved slowly, cautiously, as if one wrong step would send her running for the woods.As if that was possible, she thought sourly. He pulled the chair closer, sitting beside her without a word.
She didn’t look at him at first. She just sat propped up by her pillows, staring at her hands.
Something warm landed gently in her lap. She saw his large hands with tattoos over the knuckles enter her field of vision before withdrawing.
She blinked down at the brown paper bag. It warmed her lap through the layers and the smell was sinful.
“It’s warm,” he said cautiously. “Beef benedict…and chocolate orange French toast.”
Her hands trembled slightly as they curled around the bag, her casted arm awkwardly slow.
She looked up, startled, lips parted.
His beautiful eyes held a vulnerability she had never seen before. They were clear, direct, and for once, unguarded. Hazel and blue. Strange and striking. She couldn’t look away.
His eyes lingered. First on hers, then strayed briefly to her chaotic mess of two-toned hair—the brown dyed strands now giving way to the stubborn blonde roots.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “That’s quite a look.”
She tried to respond, but he held up a callused hand.
“Eat first,” he said, then, more softly, “Please.”
She hesitated. Then nodded and pulled out the French toast.
The first bite was decadent—crispy edges soaked in warm syrup, the hint of orange zest singing through the richness.
She moaned aloud, deep, guttural, involuntary.
Thane froze. His eyes were involuntarily drawn to her lips.
Across the bay, Mrs. Johanas—a lean woman with an oxygen cannula under her nose due to advanced COPD—gave a wheezy chuckle.
“Ask your young man to get me some of that,” she said hoarsely. “And a cigarette while he’s at it.”
Faolan choked on a laugh, cheeks burning. “Sorry,” she muttered. “It’s just…really good.”
Thane wasn’t listening. All his attention was on her mouth He was watching her like she was the only person in the room.
