30. Inés
30
Inés
I t’s been well over three weeks, and I’ve had what feels like hundreds of doctors in and out of this damn room. Every day is the same—tests, check-ups, nurses poking and prodding me like I’m some fragile thing that might break apart at any second.
But I won’t.
I can’t.
I’m getting stronger. I can feel it in the way my body moves, in the way I can sit up longer without feeling like my ribs are caving in. The bruises are fading, the cuts are healing, but the scars—both the ones I can see and the ones I can’t—are going to be with me a lot longer.
I catch sight of my arms as the nurse rolls up my sleeves to check my vitals. Ugly shades of yellow and purple still stain my pale brown skin, but they aren’t as dark as they were before. My fingers hover over a deep cut near my wrist, a fresh pink line replacing the scabbing.
It should make me angry. Maybe even make me sick. But all I feel is… detached. Like I’m looking at someone else’s body, someone else’s pain.
Then, there’s my face.
I haven’t seen it yet.
Not fully.
Every time they change my bandages, I keep my eyes locked on the ceiling, breathing through the discomfort, ignoring the urge to glance at the mirror across the room.
Because if I see it—if I really see the damage—I won’t be able to push it away anymore.
I will break.
And breaking isn’t an option.
The knock at the door is sharp and quick. A nurse pokes her head in, followed by the doctor leading my reconstruction plan—the same doctor who’s been explaining the procedures to me in careful, measured words, like he’s trying not to scare me off.
It’s time.
My first surgery.
A deep breath steadies me. My hands clench into the sheets, or at least it feels like they do. My heart pounding harder than it should, but I lift my chin anyway.
Ghost stands there as they roll me out of the room, prepped and ready. This is something new for both of us.
I am going into surgery, not knowing what I’ll look like when I wake up. Him, standing on the outside, watching me get wheeled away, powerless to do a damn thing about it.
I hold his gaze as long as I can.
With today’s technology, I can only hope and pray that I don’t come out looking worse than when I go in.
And that when I wake up, he’s still standing there, waiting.
As I’m being wheeled down the hall, my mind keeps circling back to all the conversations Ghost and I have had—not that there have been many. He hasn’t called me Inés since the first time he said it. Just Little Killer. It’s like he’s already decided who I am to him.
We’re not the chatty type, but he’s been here every damn moment since I woke up. Watching. Helping and insisting on doing things for me even when I push back. It’s overwhelming—too much, too soon. I barely know him, and yet he’s acting like I’m his responsibility. I should hate it. I want to hate it. But there’s this small, treacherous part of me that likes it. That wants to lean into it.
He hasn’t shaved since we’ve been here, and damn, does he wear that beard well. I’ve heard people say beards are like makeup for men. If you ask me, Ghost doesn’t need the help. He looks good either way. Too good. And I don’t need another distraction. Not now. Not with everything I’m trying so hard not to talk about.
As they wheel me into the cold, sterile operating room, my chest tightens. The bright overhead lights glare down at me, and the hum of machines fills the space, but it’s the presence of strangers that sets my nerves on edge.
Ghost had to stay behind. He wanted to come in, I could tell by the way his jaw tightened when they said no. But now, without him there, I feel exposed. Vulnerable.
A nurse offers me a reassuring smile as she adjusts my IV. “You’re in good hands, sweetheart,” she says, but it does nothing to calm the anxiety building in my chest.
Another voice—deeper, male—breaks through the noise. “Alright, Inés, we’re going to get you prepped. Just relax for me.”
His hand presses against my arm, firm but impersonal. Still, my entire body locks up. My heart slams against my ribs as panic seizes me, fast and violent.
“No—” The word is strangled in my throat.
I try to jerk away, but there are too many hands, too many voices suddenly telling me to calm down, to breathe. But they don’t understand. They don’t know what happens when a man’s hands are on me and I can’t move.
“Get off,” I gasp, thrashing weakly against the straps that begin to hold me in place. The walls of the operating room blur, my pulse pounding loudly in my ears. I can’t do this. I can’t be here.
A mask lowers over my face. The scent of anesthesia fills my lungs.
“Just breathe,” someone soothes, but the panic is still there, clawing at me until the darkness swallows me whole.