Chapter 9
Stefan
“Y ou should have died,” the doctor standing in front of me said frankly.
“There is no medical reason you should still be alive. Other than pure stubbornness. You got to the ER too late. By the time Francesca convinced me to try a hail Mary—” he shook his head and wrote something into my chart, “you hardly had a drop of blood left in your body.
I wasn't sure how I'd patch you up. We took you back into surgery three times to fix bleeders.” He set the chart on my bed.
“There's no medical reason you should be breathing here talking to me right now. I want you to appreciate that. And live your life accordingly. Because if this happens again,” he tapped his finger on the chart,“I can guarantee you that the outcome won't be as much fun. Whatever—” he cleared his throat and glared at me, “activities got you here, I advise you stop them immediately. Or next time, this will be an entirely different ending.”
I nodded and thanked the doctor before he left. I was grateful he'd saved my life. But he didn't appear all that pleased about it himself.
“All right, do you want to call your family to come and pick you up? Or do you want the nurses' station to do that for you?” Francesca asked as she started cleaning my table off.
Her question pissed me off and set me on edge. “No, I don't want you to call any of them,” I spat out harshly. Perhaps too harshly.
Francesca stopped cleaning and looked at me. “Then how are you getting home? You'll need help for a while. Who's going to be there for you?”
I shook my head, getting more annoyed with this subject as every second passed. “You can drive me home. Since you'll be staying there anyway.” Christ, what did she think was happening here? Did she think I was going to stay with my fuckin' asshole brother?
“Wha—what?” she stammered and stuttered. “What are you talking about?”
I rolled my head from side to side, cracking my neck a few good times. This hospital bed was doing a number on my body. “I mean, you're coming to my house. And living with me. Why are you so confused about this?”
She set down the rag in her hand and said, “I'm not coming to your house. I'm certainly not living with you. Give me Giselle's number and I'll call her.” She pulled a pen and small pad of paper out of her pocket and tried to hand it to me.
Fuck.
“Chesca, what do you think's been going on here? Between us? Because obviously you've somehow spun this around in your mind.”
She gave me that adorable frown that I fuckin' loved. “I have no idea what you're talking about, Stefan.”
My head fell forward, and I huffed. I looked back up at her and said, “You're mine, Chesca.”
She frowned deeper. “I'm—yours?”
Christ.
I was going to have to explain this to her. “How many times a day do I have my tongue down your throat?”
A shocked expression crossed her face. It would have been comical if I wasn't so pissed. And she knew the answer to that question just as well as I did.
And that answer was—a lot.
Over the two weeks I’d been here, she’d learned how to kiss quite well.
“And Chesca, who came all over your belly? And then who scooped up that come and shoved it inside your tight pussy?”
Her cheeks turned a deep shade of red.
And I fuckin' loved it.
Her eyes widened but she didn't say a word.
“Did you take the morning after pill, Chesca?” I asked, hoping like hell she said no. She'd admitted to not being on birth control. And she didn't exactly stop me from stuffing my come inside of her.
No.
Instead, she’d opened her legs even more for me.
“Answer me. Did you take the morning after pill?” I knew the chances of her getting pregnant that way was slim to none. Even so, the prospect of planting my baby inside of Francesca had been fucking heady.
Her eyes looked at the floor briefly before she met my gaze. “No.”
My fucking heart soared at that news.
I smiled at her. “Good. I'm happy to hear that. Now, cut the shit and grab me a wheelchair. I want to get the fuck out of here.” I nodded toward the door. I couldn't wait to get out of this shithole. The smells alone from this place were enough to kill me.
Francesca's cheeks were still red. But her expression changed. It was like she'd put on a mask. “I'm not taking you home, Stefan. And I'm not living with you.” She swallowed and backed up. “And I'm not yours.”
I see. She wanted to play hard to get, I guess. “Chesca. You are. And you know it. You feel what we have between us. Now, stop acting like you don't know what I'm talking about. Grab a wheelchair and let's go.”
She pushed the table against the wall and took her gloves off. After she dropped them in the garbage, she said, “I hope you get back on your feet soon, Stefan. And I hope you never have another gunshot wound. Anywhere on your body. Stay safe.”
And then—
She walked out.