Chapter 3
JOSIE
THREE WEEKS LATER
Hospitals, I’ve decided, are designed by sadists.
The beds are uncomfortable, the lights are too bright, the machines beep at random intervals like they’re specifically calibrated to prevent sleep. And the gown—don’t even get me started on the gown. One sneeze and I’m flashing the entire nursing staff.
But the worst part? The absolute worst part of waking up in Stoneheart General Hospital with broken ribs and a head that feels like someone has used it for batting practice?
Boone Armstrong.
He’d moved in at some point during my coma. The coma had lasted eleven days before I’d woken up with a few new holes in my head from efforts to relieve the pressure from the swelling. The first day after waking had involved one hell of a headache.
I blink awake, searching for the giant shadow that’s camping in my room.
Stone’s shifted from the chair beside my bed to the one by the window, a cup of coffee in his hand and his phone pressed to his ear. His voice is low, too quiet for me to make out the words, but I recognize the tone. Club business.
I watch him through half-closed eyes, not ready to announce that I’m awake.
According to the nurses—who’ve been far too delighted to fill me in—Stone has been here every single day since the accident. Every. Single. Day. Sitting by my bed while I lay unconscious, holding my hand, talking to me.
When the swelling got worse and they had to do emergency surgery—burr holes, they called it, which sounds far too casual for “drilling into someone’s skull”—he was in the waiting room for six hours. He threatened to have the entire MC descend on the hospital if anyone tried to make him leave.
I woke up a week ago to find him asleep in that chair, his hand wrapped around mine, looking like he hadn’t slept properly in days. The first word out of my mouth was his name.
I’ve been trying not to think about what that means.
He stayed. For three weeks, he stayed.
The thought keeps circling back, no matter how many times I try to push it away. Eight months of professional distance, of loaded silences, of pretending that night on the porch never happened—and the moment I end up in a hospital bed, he’s here. Holding my hand. Looking at me like—
Stop, Josie. Don’t start reading into things again.
But I’ve seen his face when I opened my eyes. I’ve seen the relief, the fear, the raw emotion he usually keeps locked down tight. Whatever else Stone is, frustrating, confusing, impossible, he hasn’t been faking that.
Which makes everything so much worse.
I can imagine what I look like right now, but I’m too scared to ask.
I can feel the stubble on the side of my head where they shaved it, the tight pull of stitches, the swelling that makes my face feel like it belongs to someone else.
I must look like something out of a horror movie—Frankenstein’s monster in a hospital gown.
Which is why when Stone walks back in and his gaze lands on me and he doesn’t flinch, my chest begins to ache in ways that have nothing to do with my broken ribs.
If he doesn’t care, I can hate him. Can write off the almost-kiss and the rejection and the three weeks of silence as a bullet dodged. Can tell myself I’m better off and eventually believe it.
But he does care. He’s proven that by being here, by staying, by sitting vigil while doctors cut into my head and I fought my way back to consciousness.
He cares. He just doesn’t want to.
I don’t know what to do with that.
“You’re awake.”
Stone’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. I open my eyes fully to find him standing beside the bed, phone tucked away, coffee abandoned.
“Unfortunately.” I try to push myself up and immediately regret it. Fire lances through my ribs, sharp and vicious, and I collapse back against the pillows with a hiss.
“Easy.” His hand hovers near my shoulder, not quite touching. “The doctor said no sudden movements.”
“The doctor can kiss my ass.”
He smiles. “I’ll pass that along.”
Despite everything, a small laugh escapes me. Then I wince because laughing hurts. Everything hurts.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
“Like I got hit by a truck.”
“It was an SUV.”
“You said that already.”
“You keep forgetting.”
“I have a concussion. I’m allowed to forget things.” I squint at him. “What time is it?”
“Almost noon.”
“Shouldn’t you be somewhere? Running a club? Intimidating small children? Stealing candy from seniors? Whatever it is you do all day?”
His mouth twitches. “Tank’s handling things.”
“For how long?”
“As long as I need.”
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline. When it doesn’t come, I shake my head—gently, because even that hurts.
“Stone. You can’t just... camp out in my hospital room indefinitely.”
“Watch me.”
“That’s not—” I blow out a breath, frustrated. “You don’t have to do this. Whatever guilt thing you’ve got going on, whatever obligation you feel—you’re off the hook. Go home. Get some sleep. I’m fine.”
A frown flickers across his face. “Is that what you think this is? Guilt?”
“What else would it be?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he pulls the chair closer to the bed and sits down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
“Eight months ago,” he says slowly, “I made a mistake.”
“Stone—”
“Let me finish.” His eyes hold mine, and I find I can’t look away. “I told you we couldn’t. I stepped back when everything in me was screaming to step forward. And I’ve regretted it every single day since.”
My heart is doing complicated flips in my chest. I ignore it.
“You had your reasons.”
“I had excuses cause I’m a fuck head.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I’ve spent years keeping everyone at arm’s length. That if I don’t let anyone in, I can’t hurt them—or get hurt myself.”
“Very healthy coping mechanism,” I mutter.
“I never said I was healthy.” A ghost of a smile. “But then you almost died, and I realized—” He stops. Starts again. “I realized I’d rather have you and lose you than spend the rest of my life wondering what could have been.”
The words hang between us, heavy and raw.
Don’t fall for this. He said he wanted you before, and then he pulled back. Words don’t mean anything.
But his eyes—God, his eyes.
“Stone...” I don’t know what I’m going to say, but he doesn’t give me the chance to figure it out.
“I’m not asking for anything right now,” he continues.
“You’re hurt and need to heal. You have every right to tell me to go to hell after the way I’ve handled this.
” He reaches out, letting his fingers brush my cheek.
“But I meant what I said. I’m not going anywhere.
And when you’re ready—when you’re healed and thinking clearly and not pumped full of painkillers—I want to have a real conversation. About us and what this could be.”
I should say no. I need to protect myself, keep my walls up, refuse to give him another chance to break me again.
Instead, I hear myself say, “And if I’m never ready?”
“Then I’ll wait.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes.”
I search his face for the lie, for the catch, for the inevitable moment when he’ll pull back again. I don’t find it.
“Your timing is horrible,” I say finally.
“I know.”
I shut my eyes then open one, glaring at him. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you.”
“I know that too.”
I close my eyes, leaning back on the bed. “And I’m still angry.”
“You should be.”
“If you pull that ‘we can’t’ bullshit again when we have that conversation, I will end you. I know people who know how to make bodies disappear.”
His chuckle washes over me. “Noted.”
The curtain to my left rustles.
I’ve almost forgotten I’m not alone in this room.
The hospital has stuck me in a semi-private situation—two beds separated by a flimsy curtain that does nothing to block sound.
I’ve heard my roommate twisting and turning in the night, muttering soft muffled curses that have worked their way into my drugged dreams. Whoever she is, she’s got a mouth on her.
I haven’t seen her yet. Haven’t had the energy to investigate. But now the curtain shifts, and a face peers around the edge.
The woman is young, maybe early to mid-twenties.
Her dark blonde hair needs washing, and her hazel eyes are sharp and assessing despite the exhaustion shadowing them.
Her nose and lips are slightly too big for her drawn face, but it lends her an interesting, unique look.
I can tell she’s pretty, underneath the bruises.
And there are a lot of bruises.
She doesn’t flinch when she sees Stone. Doesn’t apologize for interrupting. She cooly assesses him with a look that says she’s sized up dangerous men before and knows to keep her distance.
“Could you keep it down a little?” she asks me, her voice flat. “All the beeping and the nurses and the—” She gestures vaguely at Stone. “It’s hard to sleep.”
“Sorry to inconvenience you with her near-death experience,” Stone mutters.
I shoot him a look. “Of course. Sorry about that. I keep forgetting someone is back there.”
Her mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “At least you’re not a snorer. My last roommate sounded like a chainsaw.”
“I make no promises once they take me off the painkillers.”
That gets a real smile, brief but genuine. It transforms her face for just a second before she locks it back down.
I study her more carefully, cataloging the injuries with the clinical eye of someone who’s prosecuted too many domestic violence cases. Split lip, mostly healed. Bruising around her eye, fading from purple to yellow. Finger-shaped marks on her upper arm, visible where her hospital gown has slipped.
Someone has hurt this girl. Recently. Repeatedly.
“What landed you here?” I ask, keeping my voice casual.
Her face shutters. “I fell.”
It’s the oldest lie in the book. I’ve heard it a hundred times from women who can’t admit—to themselves or anyone else—what really happened.
“That’s a lot of bruises for a fall.”
“It was a long staircase.”
“Must have been.”