42. Jonah
Jonah
P ain.
Yeah.
Still there.
That’s the first thing I notice when consciousness drags me back under like a hook through my ribs.
Breathing burns.
Chest feels tight.
Body feels like it got run over by a convoy.
Good.
Alive then.
I force my eyes open slowly.
Bad decision immediately.
The room spins once before settling enough to recognize shapes.
Looks like a hospital room.
Machines.
Low lights.
IV lines running into my arm.
And no Sienna.
Wrong.
That’s wrong enough I try sitting up immediately.
Huge mistake.
Pain detonates through my side hard enough black spots explode across my vision.
“Easy.”
Ronan’s voice cuts through the haze from somewhere near the corner of the room.
I grit my teeth and force another breath in.
“She—”
“She’s fine.”
Which means she absolutely is not fine.
I look toward him fully now.
He’s sitting in the chair beside the wall, arms folded, watching me with the exhausted expression of someone who already knows exactly what I’m about to do.
“How long?”
“Three days.”
That lands harder than expected.
Three days unconscious.
Three days, Sienna sat alone, waiting for me to wake up.
My jaw tightens.
“Where is she?”
Ronan hesitates just slightly.
Too long.
“Ops room.”
Yeah.
Definitely not fine.
I rip the IV from my arm before he can stop me and swing my legs over the side of the bed.
Pain slams into me instantly again.
Sharp enough my vision blurs.
Don’t care.
“You’re not cleared to move.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
I force myself upright slowly while the room tilts dangerously sideways.
Ronan exhales heavily.
“At least put these on,” he says, handing me some sweats.
He doesn’t try to stop me.
Because he already knows there’s no point.
If Sienna’s hurting—
I’m going to her.