Page 77 of Savage Hearts
“You lost a kidney. And your spleen. And a lot of blood.”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“It’s a maybe. How do you feel?”
I think about it, searching for the perfect word to describe the sensation of extreme weakness, overwhelming exhaustion, and throbbing, bone-deep pain.
“Shitty.”
He gazes at me in unsmiling, laser-focused silence, then says suddenly, “Soup?”
I blink in confusion, not knowing if I heard him correctly because my brain is cottage cheese. “Excuse me?”
“Do you think you can eat something?”
Now I get it. “What kind of soup is it?”
He frowns. “The kind I made. Do you want it or not?”
We’re talking about soup. This is crazy. Focus, Riley. Find out what’s going on.I close my eyes and exhale slowly. “Why am I here?”
He pauses. Then his voice comes very low. “Because I want you to be.”
I’m afraid to open my eyes, but I do it anyway. He stares down at me with a million unspoken things burning in his gaze, all of them frightening.
I try to make my voice strong. “How long will I be here?”
“As long as it takes.”
I don’t have the nerve to ask him what that means or the energy to handle whatever the answer might be. I just bite my lip and nod, as if any of this makes any sense whatsoever.
He rises and leaves.
I hear sounds from another room. Pots clatter on a stove. A door opens and closes. Water runs into a sink.
Then he’s back, sitting on the edge of the bed again, a plain white ceramic bowl cradled in his hands. He sets the bowl on the small wood table beside the bed.
“I’m going to lift you. It will hurt.”
Before I can protest that I’m hurting enough already, he drags me up by my armpits to a sitting position.
He wasn’t exaggerating: it hurts. It hurts like a bitch. A thousand knives stab into my stomach and slash it apart. The pain leaves me breathless and gasping.
Steadying me with one hand, he props the pillow against the headboard with the other. Then he helps me lie back against it, shushing me gently when I groan.
He sits next to me again, picks up the bowl, ladles the spoon into it, then holds the spoon to my lips. He waits patiently until I’ve controlled my ragged breathing and open my mouth, then he slides the spoon between my lips.
The soup is hot, creamy, and delicious. I swallow greedily, licking my lips.
He grunts in satisfaction and feeds me another spoonful.
It isn’t until I’m halfway through the bowl that I speak again. “How long have I been here?”
“Since last night. You spent six days in the hospital before that.”
I’ve been unconscious for a week? Impossible.
He sees my shock and says, “You were in a trauma unit until you were stable enough to be moved.”
