Chapter 27 Cece
CECE
Hospitals are filled with two things: people who are dying, and people who are terrified someone they love might be. I fall into the second category, watching the ER doctor probe at Brayden's jaw with latex-covered fingers.
“Can you open your mouth wider for me?” The doctor’s voice is clinically detached, treating Brayden’s split lip and the ugly purple swelling along his jawline as if they’re nothing more than an interesting puzzle to solve.
Brayden tries to comply, wincing as the movement stretches his busted lip. Fresh blood wells up from the crack, and I fight the urge to slap the doctor's hands away. He's been poking at Brayden's injuries for ten minutes now, each prod making my stomach clench tighter.
“You're lucky,” the doctor announces, stepping back to make notes on his tablet. “No fracture to the mandible, but you've got significant contusions and soft tissue damage. That tire iron could have shattered your jaw if it had hit just a bit harder.”
I swallow hard at the word “shattered,” the image of Ethan swinging that metal bar at Brayden's face replaying in my mind for the hundredth time. Two inches to the left, and we might be in a trauma center instead of the ER.
“What about his ribs?” I ask. “He could barely breathe in the ambulance.”
“X-rays show bruised ribs, not broken,” the doctor says, scrolling through something on his tablet. “He is going to be in significant pain for a while, but there is no internal bleeding or organ damage.”
He pauses, then adds, “We are concerned about a concussion. His responses were slow when he came in, so we will need to monitor him closely for the next several hours.”
Relief floods through me so intensely I grip the edge of the exam table to stay upright. Bruised, not broken. He's going to be okay.
“So he can go home?” I ask, already calculating how I'm going to get him comfortable in the guesthouse.
The doctor looks up from his tablet with a frown. “I'd like to keep him overnight for observation. Head injuries can be tricky, and given the force of impact—”
“No.” Brayden's voice is rough but firm, the single syllable brooking no argument. “I'm not staying.”
“Mr. Cole, I strongly recommend—”
“I said no.” Brayden shifts, grimacing as he puts weight on his elbow to sit up straighter. “Just give me whatever paperwork I need to sign.”
I place my hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension radiating through him. “Brayden, maybe you should listen to—”
“I'm not spending the night in this place,” he cuts me off, his voice harsh. His eyes meet mine, a silent plea in them that I understand all too well. Hospitals mean vulnerability, helplessness. For Brayden, that's worse than physical pain.
The doctor sighs, clearly used to difficult patients. “Then you'll need to sign an AMA form—Against Medical Advice. And someone will need to monitor you for the next twenty-four hours for signs of concussion or internal bleeding.”
“I'll watch him,” I say immediately. “I won't leave his side.”
Brayden's hand finds mine, squeezing gently despite his battered knuckles. The gesture makes my heart ache more than any of his visible injuries.
“Fine.” The doctor taps something on his tablet with more force than necessary.
“I'll have the nurse bring the paperwork and discharge instructions.
You'll need to fill these prescriptions immediately.” He scribbles on a prescription pad and hands me the sheet.
“Pain management, antibiotics for that facial laceration, and anti-inflammatories.”
When the doctor leaves, I step between Brayden's knees, careful not to touch his injured ribs. “Are you sure checking yourself out is a good idea?”
“I hate hospitals,” he says simply, his good hand coming up to rest at my waist. “Nothing good ever happens in them.”
I think of my mother’s final days—the antiseptic smell, the harsh fluorescent lights seared into my memory, a permanent scar I still carry. “I know,” I whisper, resting my forehead gently against his. “We’ll get you out of here soon.”
He leans into my touch, breathing carefully so he doesn’t jostle his ribs. The vulnerability in his eyes makes something deep in my chest twist.
“How bad do I look?” he asks. “Tell me the truth.”
I pull back just enough to take him in. His lip is split, a thin line of red at the corner. The swelling along his jaw is getting worse by the minute, and the butterfly bandage on his forehead is barely holding the cut from Ethan’s first swing.
“You look rough,” I admit, attempting a shaky smile. “Really rough.”
His thumb moves in slow circles on my hip, a touch meant to reassure me even though he’s the one in a hospital gown, bruised and stitched together.
“And you?” he asks softly. “Are you holding up?”
It’s so very him—to worry about me when he’s the one who took the blows. “I’m okay,” I say, though my voice betrays a tremor. “Ethan never got the chance to hurt me.”
I swallow hard. “Because of you.”
Brayden’s expression hardens at Ethan’s name. “Where is that piece of shit now?”
“Jail,” I confirm. “Violation of the protective order, aggravated assault with a weapon, attempted kidnapping, operating under the influence—the list goes on. Sheriff Miller said they're holding him without bail until his arraignment.”
“Good.” The single word burns with Brayden’s fury, even through his pain-strained voice. “Hope they throw away the fucking key.”
A nurse appears with a clipboard of discharge papers, her expression professionally neutral despite Brayden's colorful language. “Mr. Cole, I need your signature on these forms acknowledging that you're leaving against medical advice.”
While Brayden scrawls his name across the dotted lines, I step aside to text Jillian with an update. My hands are still shaking slightly, adrenaline not fully faded from my system.
“All done,” the nurse says, tucking the clipboard under her arm. “I'll get your discharge instructions and prescriptions ready. There's a twenty-four-hour pharmacy three blocks from here if you want to fill these tonight.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, grateful for her matter-of-fact efficiency.
Once she leaves, Brayden attempts to slide off the exam table, his face going alarmingly pale with the effort. I rush forward, slipping my arm around his waist to steady him.
“Easy,” I murmur.
I'm reaching out to grab him when the exam room door swings open. Big and Wrecker burst in. Their faces shift from worry to determination when they see Brayden struggling.
“Whoa there, brother,” Big says, moving with surprising speed for a man his size. He reaches Brayden just as his knees start to buckle, catching him with one massive arm. “We got you.”
“I'm fine,” Brayden protests. The stubborn idiot would rather collapse than admit he needs help.
“Sure you are,” Wrecker says, positioning himself on Brayden's other side. “And I'm the real Santa Claus.”
I step back, relief washing over me as they take Brayden between them. Even injured, Brayden is too proud to fully surrender, but he doesn't fight as they steady him.
“How'd you know we were here?” Brayden asks, his breathing labored.
“Jillian called,” Big explains, carefully adjusting his grip to avoid Brayden's injured ribs. “Said you'd gotten yourself beat to hell playing hero.”
“Wasn't playing,” Brayden mutters, wincing as they help him sit back on the edge of the exam table.
“Where are my clothes?”
“In evidence,” I offer. “Sheriff Miller’s orders.”
“Guess you’re riding home with your ass out,” Big jokes.
“Do you think they can loan him something to wear home?”
“Christ,” Wrecker says, running a hand over his face. “Your girl's right. We can't have you flashing your junk all over town.” He turns to me with a grin that doesn't quite hide his concern. “No offense, Cece, but I think that view should be exclusive.”
“I'll run to the gift shop,” Big announces, already heading for the door. “They might have some sweatpants or something.”
Left alone with Wrecker and Brayden, I let myself sink into the plastic chair in the corner. The adrenaline is finally wearing off. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to stop the trembling that's started deep in my bones.
“Hey,” Brayden says softly, his eyes finding mine across the room. “Come here.”
I hesitate, afraid of hurting him worse than he already is.
“Princess,” he murmurs, and the gentle command pulls me to my feet. I cross the room and carefully position myself between his knees again, my hands hovering uncertainly over his battered body.
“I don't want to hurt you,” I whisper.
“You won't.” His good hand reaches for mine, tugging me closer. “I'm tougher than I look.”
Wrecker snorts. “You look like hamburger meat right now, brother.”
“I can still kick your ass,” Brayden grumbles, though the grimace that follows kills any illusion of menace.
I want to laugh, but the reality of how close I came to losing him crashes over me again. My throat tightens as I take in his battered face. The bruising has spread, deepening into ugly purples and blues along his jaw.
“I’d pay money to see you try,” Wrecker says, though a flicker of worry betrays him. “You can barely stand upright.”
The door swings open as Big returns, holding a gray sweatshirt and black sweatpants. “Best I could scavenge,” he says, tossing them onto the exam table. “Enjoy strolling around with ‘Pinewood General Hospital’ stamped across your ass.”
“Better than nothing,” Brayden mutters, giving the clothes a look that suggests they personally insulted him.
“Need help getting dressed?” I ask softly.
He shakes his head—then immediately winces. “I’ve got it.”
“Sure you do,” Big says, rolling his eyes. “Just the same way you ‘had’ Ethan Kincaid. And we all witnessed how that worked out.”
“He's in jail, isn't he?” Brayden growls. “I had to make sure that he fucked up enough so the charges would stick.”
“Yeah, fucked up is the right word to explain why you are in a hospital gown and he’s behind bars.” Wrecker points out. “Call it a draw.”