Chapter 6 #2
But if he’s a figment of my imagination, why does he look so real? Why can I see the way his throat works as he swallows?
His gaze drops to my hand, which lies limp on the mattress beside me. Slowly, as if he’s afraid to touch me, he reaches for it. His fingers intertwine with mine, and the contact sends a jolt of electricity through my entire body.
He squeezes my hand.
Real.
“Tori,” he rasps. “She’s awake.”
“Jess.” My name leaves her lips like a prayer, and she’s at my side in an instant, her hand finding my free one.
“Don’t panic,” she whispers. “I need you to listen to me, okay? I know you’re scared and confused, but you have to stay calm.
If you get hysterical again, they won’t be able to remove the tube.
Blink if you understand, okay? Once for yes, twice for no. ”
I blink once.
I understand.
“Good.” She squeezes my hand.
Lucifer stands, his hand slipping from mine. “I’ll get the doctor.”
Tori pulls the chair closer and sits, never letting go of my hand. Her thumb traces circles against my knuckles, and I focus on the sensation, using it to anchor myself.
“Do you remember what happened?”
Memories flash before me. I remember trying to get those girls off the bull so we could close the bar for the night. Then there was a noise. Glass shattered. The next thing I recall is the flames that spread throughout the bar. People screamed. Chaos ensued. Heat . . . so much heat.
My gaze focuses back on my friend, and I blink once as tears escape the corners of my eyes.
“I know,” she whispers. “I know it’s a lot. But you’re alive, Jess. You’re alive, and that’s all that matters right now.”
I’m alive.
That should be a relief, and yet, it’s not.
Just then Lucifer returns with a doctor in tow.
Behind them, two nurses file in, one pushing a cart loaded with supplies, and anxiety grips me.
I’m about to start counting when the doctor steps forward, calling me a name that doesn’t belong to me.
A name I’m pretty certain belongs to the man who signs my paycheck.
But I don’t have time to harp on that or make sense as to why these people think I’m Lucifer’s wife because the doctor tells me he’s going to assess my breathing and remove the tube in my throat.
“Mr. Holland,” the doctor says, glancing at Lucifer. “We’d prefer if you both stepped out of the room while we do this. It can be a bit?—”
Lucifer cuts him off.
“I’m not going anywhere, and neither is she.”
The doctor flinches at Lucifer’s tone, and he opens his mouth to protest, but the words die on his tongue. His gaze bounces between the two nurses before he looks back at Lucifer and sighs.
“Fine. But I need you both to stand back and let us work.”
The nurses move in, and I feel hands on my face, adjusting the tape that secures the tube.
“This might feel strange,” one nurse says. “Just try to breathe normally.”
I feel something cold and foreign moving inside my throat. The nurse counts, and on three, she pulls. The tube slides out of my throat, and I immediately start to gag.
“There you go,” the doctor says, stepping forward. “Breathe. Just breathe.”
Every breath I take feels like I’m swallowing glass. I try to speak, but all that comes out is a hoarse whisper. My throat feels raw. I press my lips together, tears streaming down my face.
“Don’t try to talk yet,” the doctor says. “Your throat is going to be sore for a while. The tube was in for several days.”
My gaze darts to Tori, then to Lucifer. Several days? How long have I been here?
Suddenly the pain in my legs returns with a vengeance, and this time there’s nothing to distract me from it. I try to sit up, to look down at my legs, but my body is too weak. All I can do is lie there and feel it consume me.
A sob rips from my chest, and I use every ounce of strength I have to point to my legs.
The doctor gently peels the sheet away from my leg. My gaze drops, and I stare at the thick, white bandages that wrap around my toes and travel up to my thighs. I try to wiggle my toes, but I can’t.
Panic surges through me. “My . . . legs . . .”
“You have third-degree burns covering approximately thirty percent of your lower body. You’ve already undergone two surgical excisions and skin grafts.”
The doctor’s words bounce around inside my skull, but none of them stick. A million questions run through my mind.
Will I be able to walk again? When will the pain go away? How will I be able to work? I need to work. I can’t leave Tori hanging. She has a daughter to support.
But the questions don’t stop there.
Are there more burns?
Oh God.
My hand flies to my face, my fingers trembling as they trace the skin along my jaw, my cheekbones, my forehead. I feel stitches—rough, raised lines cutting across my skin. My breath hitches, and I look at Tori, my eyes wide with panic.
Tori opens her mouth, but it’s Lucifer who speaks first.
“You’re beautiful,” he rasps. “So fucking beautiful.”
I shake my head, my hands still pressed against my face as tears roll down my cheeks. I don’t believe him. I look back at Tori. Her lips move, but I don’t hear what she’s saying over the voice that sounds in my head, telling me my life is over.
“Mrs. Holland, we’re going to give you something for the pain. It’s going to help you relax and get some rest.”
Something cold slides into my veins through the IV, and almost immediately, the edges of the world begin to soften.
The darkness doesn’t last as long this time. When I surface, the room is dimmer. My throat feels like sandpaper, and my legs ache with a dull, persistent throb that the morphine has barely managed to dull.
I turn my head slowly, and Lucifer is still there, sitting in the chair next to my bed, one boot propped on the opposite knee, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes widen slightly when he realizes mine are open, and he sits straighter in the chair.
Everything from earlier comes rushing back, and my gaze drops to my legs. The sheet covers them, but I know beneath it lies the horrible truth.
My gaze slides back to Lucifer. I open my mouth to speak, but my throat is too dry. That’s when I spot the pitcher of water sitting on the rolling tray next to him. Lucifer tracks my gaze and reaches for one of the plastic cups, filling it with water before he drops a straw inside the cup.
He stands with the cup in his hand, bringing the straw to my lips, and I take a small sip, wincing as I swallow. But the water is cool and soothing, so I ignore the discomfort and take another greedy sip.
That’s when he pulls the straw away from me.
“Slow,” he grunts. “Too much and you’ll choke.”
He brings the straw back to my lips, and I take another tentative sip. When I’ve had my fill, I pull my lips away from the straw, and he sets the cup back on the rolling cart before he lowers himself back into the chair.
For a beat, neither of us says anything. Then I break the silence.
“I wasn’t dreaming?”
Not about the fire, or the burns.
The pain is very real, and so is the man sitting beside me.
And somehow, that’s the most jarring realization of them all.
He clears his throat and shakes his head. “No, not a dream.”