Page 86 of Under Your Scars
“Look at me,” I say quietly, and after a long moment, she pulls her head back slightly so that her red-rimmed eyes meet mine. Tears and snot and dried blood run down her face. “You were so brave, and I’m so fucking proud of you.So. Fucking. Proud.”
I have to know what Valenti wanted from her, the consequences so severe that she’d allow herself to be raped repeatedly rather than give it to him. I can’t imagine there’s anything worth that kind of torment.
I take a deep breath. “Angel, tell me what they wanted from you,” I beg.
“Your name.”
My brain short circuits. “What?” I ask, a dumbfounded look in my eyes because I’m almost certain I misheard her. “My name?” She hesitantly nods. My mouth falls open, breath caught in my throat, and my entire resolve disintegrates. I don’t know if I should be grateful or fucking horrified that she would do that for me.
This time, I’m the one to find comfort in her neck. Her rich brown hair soaks up the stray tears that leak from my eyes. “Why wouldn’t you just tell them, Elena? Why would you let them do that to you?”
“They would have done it anyways,” she whispers, her voice hoarse from the emotional exhaustion. I let out a defeated sigh and look at her,reallylook at her for the first time to take in the state she’s in. Her cheek is bruised. Splotched and red and swelling. She has a split lip and broken blood vessels in her left eye. There’s a knot the size of Alaska on the back of her head. The large gash on her thigh is dripping blood down her leg, soaking into my pants. She’s wheezing. She’s sickly pale.
I carefully set Elena down on the bed, her eyes going into panic mode. She grips the front of my shirt so tightly in her small fists that she might tear a hole through the fabric. “Don’t leave me!”
I use my now free hands to cup her cheeks and press my forehead to hers. “Angel, I swear on my fucking life, I amneverletting you out of my sight again.
PART II
CHAPTER 23
THE EXECUTIONER
I should have burnt this city to the ground when I had the chance.
CHAPTER 24
THE ANGEL
I don’t remember falling asleep, but when I wake up, the hum of a fluorescent light buzzes through my ears. It’s so bright, and I wonder if that’s what it looks like when you die. Everyone always talks about a light, but I’m sure their versions are much warmer and more welcoming than the harsh white above me.
My entire body feels like it’s been run over. My head is in agony, the throbbing nearly unbearable and that light sends a sharp pain to my brain right under my eyeballs. I squeeze my eyes shut and rub them. An uncomfortable pressure makes itself known in the crook of my left arm. I look down. It’s an IV.
I hate IV’s. I know that there’s not actually a needle still inside me, but whenever I see one, that’s all I can think about. A tiny needle burrowing into my delicate veins with every small movement. I set my arm down and a small wave of lightheadedness washes over me, settling me back down into the bed.
I let out a shaky breath and then I jolt upright.
IV. I have an IV in my arm, which means I’m in a hospital.
I’ve got one of those paper-thin gowns covering my body, and a bright purple blanket draped over me. A soft pillow is poised where I was resting my head. Definitely not hospital issue.
To my right, there’s a plastic chair with a leather jacket draped over the back. I lean over, my ribs aching painfully when I do, and I grab the garment. I pull it to my nose and inhale.
Christian.
A small dose of comfort settles into my heart, knowing that he’s here, somewhere. I lie back down, holding the jacket close to my chest as if it were a stuffed animal, and close my eyes.
My body goes completely stiff when I hear hushed voices outside the door and pull that jacket over my head like it’s a shield. I shake and tremble in my bed, hoping that if I try hard enough, I’ll gain the power of invisibility. Soft footsteps approach me, and I whimper quietly under the cover, tears already welling up in my eyes.
“Ms. Young?” A soft-spoken voice asks, but I don’t move for a long minute. I peek out from under the jacket. It’s a woman. A tall, regal, dark-skinned woman. I meet her eyes and she gives me a sympathetic smile. “I’m Dr. Anette Portman.” She takes a hesitant step forward, but only to check the bags hanging on a hook next to my bed that are attached to my IV. “Are you in any pain, Ms. Young?”
I blink at her like she’s just spoken a foreign language. My heart thuds in my chest, and each breath I take is laborious and yes, painful.
“It hurts to breathe,” I whisper, looking down as if it’s something to be ashamed of.
Dr. Portman nods. “That’s very common with broken ribs, and you have three. Luckily, they seem to be intact. No splinters. You should heal just fine. I will approve a small increase in your dosage of painkillers. Anything else?”
I take a long moment to think about it. “I have a headache.”
