Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
I refused, utterly refused to live in a world where he wasn’t. I drifted, fear and exhaustion mingling in a fitful nap until a hand shook my shoulder.
“Avery.” Duncan stood over me. When had he returned? The light had shifted. Morning for sure now, a new shift over at the information desk, Duncan’s beard shadow darker, and my heart pounding that the sun had brought the worst news.
“What happened? Is he…?”
“He’s awake.” Duncan smiled, possibly for the first time since his arrival. “He’s talking. Back in a regular room too.”
“Thank God.” My voice cracked, and if Duncan hadn’t already guessed, my tears probably told the whole damn story. Fuck it. I was so beyond caring.
“You can see him.”
“What? Really?” My heart clattered so loud he had to be able to hear it. I’d prayed for this all night and never had my emotions felt so close to the surface. I had no idea what I would say to Malik, only that I had to go. I needed to see for myself that he was alive, even if my legs shook the whole trek to the room number Duncan provided.
The door was open, giving me a partial view of the hospital bed and the back of an elegant woman sitting in a chair, holding Malik’s hand.
I stopped. What if he didn’t want to see me? What if I ruined everything with his mother? The best thing for me would be to see him, talk to him, tell him how much he meant to me, and that was what I’d prayed for all damn night. But it was a selfish need.
You deserve someone to treat you right. Malik had said that to me more than once, and for the first time, I truly understood what that meant. I wanted to be that person for him, put his needs ahead of my own. What if the best thing for him would be me stepping away? What if the right thing for him meant the worst thing for me? His happiness meant so much more than my own.
Was I strong enough to go in?
Was I strong enough to not?
I stood frozen, trapped by the most important decision of my life, trying for once to be rational, measured, not impulsive.
And then I heard my name.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Malik
I’d been kicked by a horse. That much I knew even in the hazy land between asleep and awake, the lure of more sleep was especially tempting because awareness brought little snippets of memories. My name shouted over and over. A painful cervical collar. Helicopter. Gentle hands. Forceful voices. The whir of medical equipment. Being told to stay calm. Dozens of questions. Pinch of an IV. More voices, more moving, easier to give into sleep, drifting in and out of alertness.
Until now, when I was stiff from an unknown number of hours of dreamless sleep. Every muscle ached, and the thin bed I was on didn’t help. Didn’t have to open my eyes to know I wasn’t on the lumpy queen-size mattress in the hotel room. Narrow bed. A sharp pinch when I moved my arm. Faint beeping. And cold, so cold. Hospital. Awake hurt, but sleep was sliding further away. Bright light flickered behind my eyes, the warmth of sunlight dragging me into unwelcome consciousness.
“There. A nice sunny morning for you.” Curtains rustled, followed by the click of high heels and a voice I’d know anywhere.
“Mama?” I blinked as she lowered herself into a chair at my bedside. She’d evidently been here some time as the hospital room bore several hallmarks of her presence—traces of her trademark perfume, window curtains thrown open, designer leather tote bag and thick shawl sitting on the window seat bench, several coffee cups on the rolling table next to where she sat.
“Yes, Malik?” She leaned forward, taking my hand. “You’re awake?”
“I…think so.” Wasn’t sure I wanted to be, but I was pretty sure I was conscious. I shivered as the last of the sleep warmth left my body, and she instantly fussed with the thin cotton covers, fluffing them and pulling them up higher on the bed.
“How many fingers?” She held up three fingers, a perfect French manicure and red lips unmarred by whatever mad dash she’d undertaken to make it to Denver.
“Three.”
“Good. I’ll tell the nurse to tell your doctor you’re awake.” She clicked the call button, speaking to the nurses in cultured tones before returning to me. “I’m sure they’ll be in with more tests now that you’re back with us.”
“How…?” I took a deep breath, gathering enough spit in my bone-dry mouth and readying myself for news I might not want to hear. “How bad is it?”
“Moderate concussion. No skull fracture or brain bleed.” My mother ticked off my injuries on her fingers, rings glinting in the sun. “You have a broken ankle, probably some soft tissue damage there too. Broken ribs, bruising on your lungs, but no puncture. They’re monitoring for internal bleeding because you were pretty banged up. Oh, Malik.”