29. Inés
29
Inés
I ’m awake.
The world is slow to come back to me, like I’m swimming through thick, suffocating fog. My body feels heavy, weighted down by something deeper than exhaustion. Pain.
It’s everywhere.
A dull, throbbing ache pulses beneath my skin, a wicked reminder that I’m still here, still breathing. But before I can drown in the agony, my gaze lands on him.
The one I last saw before everything went black. Before, I was swallowed whole by the devil himself.
Marklov.
My chest tightens at the thought of that monster, at the memories that threaten to claw their way to the surface again. But I shove them back down, forcing myself to focus on the man in front of me instead.
This man is no angel. He never pretended to be. But right now, he is my savior.
His dark obsidian eyes are locked onto mine, wide with something that almost looks like relief—almost. He looks like hell like he’s been sitting there for hours, maybe even days, his jaw unshaven with a five o’clock shadow, his clothes rumpled, his eyes shadowed with something deep and unspoken.
How long has he been here? Time in the void is non-existent. It could have been hours, days, weeks, months, or even a year, and I wouldn’t know.
I try to speak, but my throat is raw, dry as sandpaper. A weak sound escapes instead, and immediately, he’s moving.
“Hey,” he murmurs, leaning in. His voice is softer than I expected. Rough, but not harsh. Careful. “You’re awake.”
No shit.
I blink up at him, trying to ignore the way my head pounds with every beat of my heart. He reaches for a cup of water from the bedside table, slipping a straw between my lips. I drink slowly, wincing as the cool liquid soothes my throat.
When he pulls it away, I find his gaze again.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he says, his voice lower now, thick with something I can’t quite name.
I swallow hard, my mind still sluggish, my thoughts still foggy. There’s so much I don’t remember. So much I do that I wish I could forget.
But one thing is clear.
I may have survived Marklov, but I didn’t make it out untouched.
His words linger in the space between us, heavy and unshaken.
You scared the hell out of me .
I should say something. A joke, maybe. A sharp comment to remind him that I’m still me. That Marklov didn’t break me completely. But my voice doesn’t come, and neither do the words.
Because the truth is—I don’t know if I’m still me.
I shift the slightest bit against the mattress, wincing as a sharp pain radiates through my ribs. His eyes darken instantly, like he’s reliving whatever hell he found me in. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for me, but he stops himself.
That hesitation guts me in a way I’m not prepared for.
“How bad is it?” I finally rasp. My voice barely sounds like my own, hoarse and unsteady.
His jaw tightens, and that tells me everything I need to know.
I lift a trembling hand toward my face, but before I can touch it, his fingers are there first, catching my wrist gently.
“Inés.” My name is a warning on his lips, a name I didn’t think I’d ever hear again, but I ignore it. I twist out of his grasp, my fingers brushing against bandages wrapped around my head, my cheek, my face. My stomach clenches.
“Where—” My voice cracks. I swallow hard, forcing the question out. “Where’s the mirror?”
He doesn’t answer.
That silence is worse than any words he could’ve said.
“Give me a damn mirror,” I snap, my voice breaking.
His eyes flash, something dangerous, frustrated, and wrecked swirling in them, but he doesn’t move.
I try again, my breaths coming faster now. “I need to see—”
“You don’t,” he cuts in, his voice firm, final. “Not yet.”
I shake my head, my pulse thundering. My body is weak, but my mind is clawing for control. For something solid to hold onto.
His hand moves slowly, this time, fingers grazing my palm before threading through mine. It’s the first real contact he’s given me since I woke up, and for some reason, it steadies me.
His voice drops lower, raw and unwavering. “You’re here. You survived. That’s what matters.”
I want to believe him. I want to believe that whatever damage Marklov left on me—on my body, my face—is something I can recover from.
But the way he’s looking at me like he’s carrying the weight of it for me, tells me the truth.
I may have survived.
But I didn’t walk away whole.
The doctor and his minions come in one by one. Some look to be in disbelief that I am awake and cognitive enough to talk. Hey, I am just as shocked as them.
That’s right, bitches, I ain’t dead yet.
I smirk, or at least I try to, but the pull of my lips sends a sharp pain slicing through my face. My jaw tightens, and I suck in a slow breath, swallowing down the frustration.
The lead doctor—a tall, graying man with tired eyes—steps forward, clearing his throat. His expression is professional, but there’s something else in his gaze. Respect? Pity? Relief? Maybe all three.
“Sgt. Martinez,” he says, nodding. “It’s good to see that you are awake.”
Sgt. Martinez.
The title lands heavily in my chest, a reminder of who I was, of what I was before the life of being the train wreck I am now. I’m more than just what Marklov did to me. More than this broken body lying in a hospital bed.
I square my shoulders as much as my battered body allows and meet the doctor’s gaze. “Guess I’m tougher than I look.” My raspy voice lets out, barely audible.
A flicker of amusement crosses his face, but it’s gone just as fast. “That’s clear.” He glances down at his clipboard before exhaling. “You’ve been through severe trauma, but you’re stable now. Your injuries are extensive, but you must be lucky. You have a long road ahead, but with time, you should make a full recovery.”
Should.
The word lingers and gnaws at me. He’s leaving space for doubt, for the possibility that I might not come out of this whole. That I might never be the same. That every time I see myself in any reflection, I’ll see that monster.
I already know that, though. I just don’t want to accept it right now.
He hesitates before continuing, his voice softer now. “Your facial injuries are severe, but we have a plan. There will be reconstructive surgeries. Multiple procedures over the coming months.”
My fingers twitch against the blanket. I already knew I was messed up, but hearing it put so clinically makes it real in a way I wasn’t ready for.
The doctor keeps talking, rattling off procedures and recovery timelines, but my mind starts to drift. My heart pounds against my ribs, a mix of fear and frustration rising in my chest.
Then, his next words anchor me back into the moment.
“You survived something most wouldn’t, Sergeant,” he says, his voice steady. “You fought your way back. Now, you just have to keep fighting.”
Fighting.
It’s all I’ve ever known.
I glance at the man still standing beside me—the one who hasn’t let go of my hand. His grip is strong and grounding. His palm is sweaty. He hasn’t said a word since the doctor started, but his presence is enough.
I inhale deeply, forcing the fear down. I made it out of Marklov’s hands alive. That bastard didn’t win completely.
And as long as I have breath in my lungs, he never will.
I lift my chin, ignoring the ache that follows. “I don’t have insurance. I can’t afford any of this.”
Ghost clears his throat, or should I say Gabriel? I may have forgotten a lot of things, but the man in my room spoke of him, and I’ll never forget that name.
“Don’t you worry, I will handle it.” He says in a reassuring voice.
“That won’t be necessary, sir, and don’t worry, Sarge, the Veterans Affairs people will take care of it. Once, we saw in your chart that a couple of my nurses did some digging and called all the necessary people. You’re covered. All of this is covered.”
Nice. A digital footprint forever stamped.
I let out a shaky breath.
“When do we start again?”
They take it step by step reassuring me of the time and details. This is about to be pure hell.