Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 51248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 256(@200wpm)___ 205(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 256(@200wpm)___ 205(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
“Mr. Cross,” the older woman with bleach blond hair says and pushes her chair back so quickly it nearly tips over. “I’m sorry for the wait, right this way.”
The brunette in a bun seems to realize who he is right before my eyes. At first there’s confusion and then we’re given wide eyes as the blood drains from her face.
“My apologies; she’s new here,” the woman leading us attempts to explain before clearing her throat and ushering us to an elevator.
It’s quiet as we ride up the elevator, stopping on a floor that requires a code. It’s unsettling, and I find the fever competing with an anxiousness that makes me feel sicker than I think I am.
All the while, Declan holds me, comforts me and leads me down a quiet hall, far too quiet and then into a private room.
It’s … jaw dropping. What. The. Fuck.
“I didn’t know rooms at the hospital existed like this,” I murmur as I stop short of the hospital bed in the middle of the room. The bed itself is adjustable and that sets it apart from a posh hotel room. But the linens are luxurious and the furniture reminds me of the estate.
Expensive, clean and modern.
The nurse opens sliding doors to an armoire and behind it is various equipment.
“Dr. Jacobson instructed me to prep you, if you don’t mind.” The nurse turns to me. “I’m so sorry, I seem to have forgotten your name,” she comments with the same tension she held downstairs.
“Braelynn Lennox.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Lennox. I’m Nurse Rachel and I will be here for anything you might need.” She stands at attention and then gestures to the bed, “If you don’t mind, would you kindly lie down.”
Declan leads me to the bed and with the fever, I’d nearly forgotten the bruises on my ass. Wincing as I sit down prompts the nurse to question, “Is it just the fever?”
Fierce blushing colors my face as I glance over at a smirking Declan, even though his eyes still hold a look of concern. He helps me lie down as he tells the nurse my symptoms. Fatigue, loss of appetite, fever and a cough.
It’s uncomfortable lying down and I wish I could lie on my stomach, but I can’t.
Declan is a silent observer as Nurse Rachel takes my vitals and then hooks me up to the machines, monitoring every possible thing from my heart rate to oxygen levels.
“She’s been in pain, can you get her morphine?” he says the moment the nurse informs me that the doctor will be in shortly.
She hesitates for only a second. “Of course. Just one moment, I’ll get that right away.” Not a question is asked.
“Are you all right?” Declan asks me and as I look up at him, he glances at the monitor and then back down to me.
Nodding, I answer, “As fine as I can be.” The nurse returns with two pills and a glass of water. Not a paper cup to throw away, but a heavy glass that looks like carved crystal.
Before I’ve even thrown back the pills, she asks if we need anything else and Declan answers for me. “That’s all, thank you.”
With a short nod, she leaves us.
“So … this room is … yours?”
“My family’s. The hall is ours.”
My brow rises in surprise.
“We have our own doctors and staff,” he explains. I keep forgetting the rules are different for men like him. Hell, they make their own damn rules — the normal ones for people like me don’t apply to the Cross brothers. As if exemplifying my thoughts, Declan places a thin black phone into my hands. It’s lightweight and obviously expensive, and definitely not mine.
“What’s this?” I question with confusion.
“Your new phone.”
“Can I have my own phone back?”
“I’d rather you have this one,” he says and shrugs, casually, as if this isn’t an invasion of my privacy or an insult or something I should be upset over. My mind races with every possible reason he took my phone. I can’t explain why it feels like such a loss. It’s only a phone but my photos are on there; I chose that phone. I saved up for it and bought it myself. It’s a piece of me. Even though it’s only a hunk of metal.
“Declan—” I protest but he doesn’t let me finish.
“What did I say about worrying? You give it to me.” He answers his own question.
I bite my tongue, not at all content with so much changing so quickly. One thought comes back to me, though, the same as the other day. “I would like to text my mother.” We talk often, very often and I’m sure she’s messaged. “She’ll worry about me.”
“Then text her,” he states and gestures to the phone in my hand.
“She won’t recognize—” He cuts me off before I can get my point across.