Milo
It has been five days.
Five days of unconsciousness.
Five days of watching her chest rise and fall, of counting every breath because it is the only thing keeping me from losing control.
Five days since I last saw her beautiful eyes.
Then, a few minutes ago, her finger twitched.
It was so faint I almost convince myself I imagined it.
But her fingers curl weakly around mine again.
My breath catches.
Fuck.
She is waking.
Or I hope she is.
Her head shifts slightly on the pillow, and I watch her without blinking.
“Come on, baby. Come back to me,” I say quietly.
Her eyelids flutter, lifting just enough to reveal the faintest line of green before falling again, heavy with exhaustion.
Fucking hell.
She moved.
She tried to open her eyes.
The swelling has gone down. The doctors told me last night. Her brain is healing, and she doesn’t require surgery.
I don’t look away from her, even for a second.
I won’t miss the moment her eyes open.
I refuse to.
After her father left, no one disturbed us.
No one knows, except him and me.
Selfish?
Yes.
Probably.
Maybe.
Who the hell knows.
I don’t give a shit.
She has always protected her sister, always shielded her, taking the weight onto her own shoulders.
I know she wouldn’t want her sister, or her mother, worrying, especially not with the attacks still hanging over us, so I stay quiet, or at least that is the excuse I give myself for not telling them.
Maybe I simply don’t need them here, crying and sniffing, asking questions I can’t answer.
What can they do, after all.
Nothing.
And I need her to myself.
If she wants her sister, she will wake up and ask, and I will give her whatever she wants. There is nothing I would refuse her.
Her fingers tighten again, just a fraction more than before. Her other hand trembles, in a small… uncontrolled movement, and her head shifts as if she’s forcing her way back into her body.
“I’m right here.” I murmur.
She has been sedated for days, and the doctors warned me that waking would not be quick. It would come in minutes at first, then longer stretches.
I watch her lips part slightly, her breath catching.
The door opens.
I look up, already irritated at the intrusion, at anything that dares pull me away from this moment.
A man in a white coat steps inside.
“Good evening,” he says. “I’m Dr. Whitaker. I’m here to check on—” He looks down at the paper in his hand. “Octavia Bellanti.”
I just watch him.
He moves closer to the bed, and confusion creeps in. He checks the monitors, adjusts a wire, makes a few notes, then reaches toward her.
I am out of the chair before he gets the chance.
My hand clamps around his wrist, and I haul him away from the bed. His back slams into the wall, and my forearm presses into his throat as I lift him until his feet barely scrape the floor. His eyes go wide.
“Who the fuck do you think you are,” I snarl, my face inches from his, “touching my woman?”
His fingers claw at my arm, his breathing turns ragged, and I tighten my grip.
“I asked you a question.”
“I… I’m her doctor,” he chokes out. “I—”
I lean closer. “I gave explicit instructions. Only female doctors, female nurses. No man steps foot in this room. No man touches her.”
“I know, but this is absurd. We’re short of staff…”
“So you crossed me because you think it’s absurd that I want female doctors checking on her.”
In one twist, I wrench his wrist sideways. There is a crack. His scream breaks loose, and I clamp my hand over his mouth before it can carry.
“Shut the fuck up,” I snarl. “If you disturb my woman with your pathetic screaming, I will kill you, so you definitely won’t make a sound.”
I release him.
“Leave,” I demand.
He nods frantically, cradles his arm to his chest, and stumbles toward the door.
I watch him go, my voice calm as I add, “Take a holiday or something, because if I see you again while we are staying in this hospital, you’re dead.”
He doesn’t look back. He scrambles out of the room, but not before I call after him and tell him to send another doctor, a woman this time.
I keep my eyes on the door long after he is gone, weighing whether I should have killed him for touching my woman.
Fuck.
I think I should’ve just killed him.
I take a step toward the hallway when something soft, so damn soft, beautiful, the best sound I have ever heard, reaches my ears.
“Milo.”
My name.
She never, ever calls me by my first name.
Something twists hard in my chest.
My head snaps around so fast it nearly gives me whiplash.
Those green eyes, heavy lidded and dazed, but alive.
My world stops.
And I swear to every god that ever existed, nothing has ever mattered more than this moment.