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“Hello,” I croak, desperate for a drink of water to get rid of this scratchy feeling in my mouth.
“You're awake.” His gravelly voice erects warning signs in my head.Why is there a man in my room? Was he watching me sleep?A passing conversation floats in from the hallway, and that's when I realize he spoke English instead of French.
“A-Are… you… a doctor?” Each word scrapes against my raw vocal cords. It's a miracle I can even speak with nerves threatening to clog my throat.
“You don't recognize the man you rescued?”
My fingers dig into the thin blanket covering my lap as a chill works its way down my spine. Perhaps his presence shouldn’t make me wary, but if he was the intended target of those shooters, then I can only imagine what kind of trouble he’s in to warrant an assassination attempt.
And now he’s in my room.
He was waiting for me to wake up. But for what purpose? Because I don't get the impression he's overcome by gratitude.
“No… S-Sorry… I’m glad you’re okay, though.”
“Thanks to you.” He remains in the shadows, so I can't see his face. Maybe there’s a reason he’s hiding. Maybe it’s one of those scenarios where if I can identify him, then he’ll have to kill me.
Unless he already thinks you can identify him after saving him from a drive-by…
Fear spikes in my blood at what that could mean for me, and the numbers jump on the screen monitoring my pulse.
“Where am I?” I ask, frantic for information. I need to let someone know where I am. I need to not be alone.Alway alone.
Silence hangs in the air before he grunts in displeasure.
“St. Martin's Hospital. You had emergency surgery to remove a bullet. One grazed your arm, but the other landed in your thigh. According to the doctors, you were extremely lucky in the placement. They managed to avoid hitting any major nerves or arteries.”
“That's a relief.” My shaky attempt at a smile fails miserably. “Did the doctors mention how long I have to stay here?”
“For a few days. Until you're safe from infection,” he drawls.
Another pregnant pause falls over us, punctuated by the constant beeping that woke me earlier. It's unnerving—a foghorn in misty waters warning of danger.
“Why are you here?”Please don’t say to tie up loose ends. To kill me for getting involved in some sort of street war.All of those true crime documentaries I’ve watched come back tobite me in the ass as the dangerous possibilities pile high and skyrocket my anxiety with it.
“That's the crux of it, isn't it?” He finally stands and steps forward, a shadowy behemoth rising from the underworld like Hades himself. Bracing one hand on the hospital bed, his large body dominates the small space, and I gasp at his size. “We're strangers. Or, at least, I have no idea whoyouare.”
“I-I don't know you either.”
“Yet you threw yourself on top of me. Blocked the spray of bullets headed my way. A brave thing to do for a merestranger,” he stresses the word again, the white of his teeth snarling from the shadows.
“I wasn't thinking about that.”
I acted on instinct—a stupid one, too, not courageous. Most people might pat themselves on the back for being brave or heroic. Might be proud to know that when push comes to shove, they do the right thing; they run toward danger if it means saving a life.
But I don’t feel pride in my actions. I don’t feel brave. I feel sick to my stomach.
A low chuckle rumbles from his chest, but it’s far from amused. It’s the ominous roar before a tiger pounces.
“You didn't think becoming my savior might ingratiate yourself to me? Might make me lower my guard enough for you to steal whatever you're after?”
“No! I have no idea what you’re talking about.” There’s an obvious plea in my voice as that song fromWickedplays in my mind.
No good deed goes unpunished.
But what will my punishment be?
“You're going to play innocent?” he scoffs, a sneer twisting his lips.