Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
The nurse steps closer, her voice urgent, “Sir, you were in that fire too. There could be soot in your lungs, carbon monoxide. It can and will kill you silently, and it only needs a few hours. So please let us check you and your oxygen levels. Your throat as well, right now. There's no point risking your life. I know you're worried about her, but she’s going to be fine. I promise.”
I freeze, my hand still on Lauren’s cheek, her skin warm under my fingers, and the nurse’s words sink in. I could die and leave her alone. Her cottage is gone, and I have not made any provisions to take care of her financially. The thought twists my gut, and I nod reluctantly.
My voice is barely a whisper. “Fine, but make it quick.”
I lean down and kiss Lauren’s forehead, my lips lingering, her scent faint under the smoke. Then I follow the nurse to a side room, every step pulling me further away from my Lauren, every second agonizing. They check me fast. A scope down my throat, the cold metal bitter against my tongue, a blood test pricking my arm. My lungs are irritated, they say, but clear, no lethal damage, just rest and water needed, and I’m back to her room in minutes, my eyes scanning her face for any change.
She’s still out, her chest rising and falling, the IV dripping steadily, and I sink onto the stool by her bed, my body heavy and exhausted, my skin itching, and my clothes stiff with soot.
The doctor’s words echo in my head. She’s fine. Just fainted from shock and stress. The IV will help. But I feel it. Something I never feel. Sorrow. Because her cottage, her fresh start, is gone, burned to nothing, and she will be sad. And for the first time in my life, I’m scared, filled with a bone-deep fear that I’m finally vulnerable. I could’ve lost her, and I still might, and I don’t know how to process it, how to hold this love, this terror, in my chest.
I take her hand, her fingers limp but warm, and brush my thumb over her knuckles, my eyes tracing her face, her closed lids. There’s nowhere else I’d be, nowhere in the world. I lean forward and lay my blackened head on the bed, the sheet cool against my cheek, her hand still in mine. Exhaustion pulls at me, my eyes heavy, my body aching, and I drift, falling asleep to the soft beep of the monitor, the faint hum of the hospital, her presence the only anchor in the dark.
God knows how long later, but a shift, a slight movement, jolts me awake. My head snaps up, my heart leaping, alarm and hope colliding.
Lauren’s eyes flutter open, blue and dazed, locking on mine, and I see that she’s okay. She’s here, she’s alive.
“Hugh,” she whispers, her voice raw from smoke.
Overwhelming relief floods me, and I can’t help myself. I lean over and kiss her, my lips soft against hers, a tear slipping from my eye, falling to her cheek, a warm streak that I wipe away quickly.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice cracking, “I’m so sorry, Lauren.”
It’s not my fault, I know, but for some strange reason I feel responsible for her pain, her loss. She’s barely been able to enjoy her cottage, her new life, and now it’s ash, and I’ll figure out why, I’ll find answers, and I will help her rebuild it all. It’ll cost nothing and I need to assure her of this.
Her voice comes, tiny, hoarse, “What happened?”
The confusion in her tone, the fragility. My head still throbs, a dull ache from the smoke and the heat, but I squeeze her hand, my eyes never leaving hers, determined to hold her through this and be whatever she needs me to be.
Chapter
Forty-Seven
LAUREN
The sterile scent of antiseptic is what I’m sure pulled me from my sleep. I mumble something incomprehensible. My vision is blurred when it sharpens again, I see white walls, fluorescent lights, and a window framing a pale gray sky.
My heart stutters as fragments of memory flicker back: the dream of Hugh’s yellow car crashing, his lifeless eyes, the fire and flames devouring my cottage, Hugh’s arms dragging me out. Anxiety spikes, and I try to sit up, my hands fumbling against the IV line taped to my arm, the needle’s pinch foreign and unfriendly.
His hands envelop mine, strong and warm, anchoring me, and I see the worry in his eyes, the same fear I feel, because I dreamed he was hurt, burned, gone.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my gaze darting over him, searching for wounds, my fingers tightening in his.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he says, his thumb brushing my knuckles, soothing, but his eyes are searching too, checking me. “What about you? How’re you feeling?” His voice is gentle, but there’s an edge, a fear he’s holding back, and I swallow, my throat dry, my mind scrambling.